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THE LOSS OF A CHILD B. iBENiErs Prime 



PAGE 

7 



THE LOSS OF A WIFE W. B. Speague. 



7a 



THE LOSS OF A HUSBAND. 



Gr. 'W. Bethttne. 



117 



THE LOSS OF A PAEENT J. B. WATEEBtrnY. . 



163 



THE LOSS OF A FEIEND CM. Iiutlee. 



205 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by 
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Southern District of New-York, 



JOHN A. GRAY, 

VRINTEK AXD STEREOTYPBR, 

95 and 97 Cliff street, N. Y. 



|ttHis|t3:'s 'gtstt. 



From hundreds of strickea families, assurances have been received of 
sweet consolation imparted by the "Thoughts on the Death of Little 
Children." It was the evidence of the usefulness of that volume which 
suggested the idea of obtaining from distinguished clergymen of several 
religious denominations similar thoughts of comfort for the mourning 
household, when death has entered it, and removed a Wife, a Husband, a 
Parent, or a Friend. The idea found immediate favor in the eyes of all 
to whom it was submitted, and the writers cheerfully furnished the ele- 
gant and appropriate treatises which are here published under their re- 
spective names. Not only to the thousands of families who are accus- 
tomed to receive spiritual instruction from the hps of these men, but to 
thousands besides, this book will go with messages of comfort and peace. 

The publisher wishes to add that the authors who have contributed 
these essays are not to be held responsible for the sentiment or taste of 
the poetical selections with which the book is interspersed. 



D^atl) of CtltU €l)il&rtn» 



BY 



SAMUEL IREMUS PRIME, D.D. 



Wov\su ot &cviptntt* 



Althottgh affliction cometh not forth from the dust, neither doth trouble spring 
out of the ground ; yet man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward. — Job 5 : 0, 7, 

Consider the work of God ! for who can make that straight which he hath made 
crooked ? In the day of prosperity be joyful ; but in the day of adversity consider. 
God also hath set the one over against the other. — Ecclesiastes 7 : 13, 14. 

[t is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting; for 
that is the end of all men, and the living will lay it to his heart. Sorrow is bottei 
than laughter; for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made hotter. The 
heart of the wise is in the house of mourning ; but the heart of fools is in the houso 
of mirth.— Ecclesiastes 7 : 2, 3, 4. 

Man that is born of a woman, is of few days and full of trouble— Job 14 : 1. 



itatji of fittk «|iitoit. 



-«•»- 



ClnlJr is S^air. 



It is liard to believe it : tliat we sliall no more 
tear tlie glad voice, nor meet the merry langli 
tliat burst so often from its glad beart. 

Cbild as it was, it was a pleasant cbild, and to 
tbe partial parent tbere are traits of loveliness 
tbat no other eye may see. It was a wise order- 
ing of Providence tbat we sbonld love onr own 
cbildren as no one else loves tbem, and as we 
love tbe cbildren of none besides. And onrs was 
a lovely cbild. 

But tbe cbild is dead. You may put away its 
playtbings. Put tbem wbere tbey will be safe. 
I would not bke to bave tbem broken or lost ; 
and you need not lend tbem to otber cbildren 
wben tbey come to see us. It would pain ma to 
1* 



10 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDEEN. 

see them in otlier hands, mncli as I love to see 
cliildren happy with, their toys. 

Its clothes you may lay aside ; I shall often 
look them over, and each of the colors that he 
wore will remind me of him as he looked when 
he was here. I shall weep often when I think 
of him ; but there is a luxury in thinking of the 
one that is gone, which I would not part with for 
the world. I think of my child now, a child 
always, though an angel among angels. 

The child is dead. The eye has lost its lustre. 
The hand is still and cold. Its little heart is not 
beating now. How pale it looks ! Yet the very 
form is dear to me. Every lock of its hair, every 
feature of the face, is a treasure that I shall prize 
the more, as the months of my sorrow come 
and go. 

Lay the little one in his coffin. He was never 
in so cold and hard a bed, but he will feel it not. 
He would not know it, if he had been laid in his 
cradle, or in his mother's arms. Throw a flower 
or two by his side : like them he withered. 

Carry him out to the grave. Gently. It is a 
hard road this to the grave. Every jar seems to 
disturb the infant sleeper. Here we are, at the 
brink of the sepulchre. Oh ! how damp, and 
dark, and cold ! But the dead do not feel it. 



THE CHILD IS DEAD. 11 

There is no pain, no fear, no weeping there. 
Sleep on now, and take yonr rest ! 

Fill it up ! Aslies to ashes, dust to dnst ! 
Every clod seems to fall on my heart. Every 
smothered sound from the grave is saying. Gone, 
gone, gone ! It is full now. Lay the turf gently 
over the dear child. Plant a myrtle among 
the sods, and let the little one sleep among 
the trees and flowers. Our child is not there. 
His dust, precious dust ! indeed, is there, but 
our child is in heaven. He is not here ; he is 
risen. 

I shall think of the form that is mouldering 
here among the dead ; and it will be a mournful 
comfort to come at times, and think of the child 
that was once the light of our house, and the 
idol — ah ! that I must own the secret of this sor- 
row—the idol of my heart. 

And it is beyond all language to express the 
joy I feel, in the midst of tears, that my sin, in 
making an idol of the child, has not made that 
child less dear to Jesus. Nay, there is even 
something that tells me the Saviour called the 
darling from me, that I might love the Saviour 
more when I had one child less to love. He 
knoweth our frame ; he knows the way to win 
and bind us. Dear Saviour, as thou hast my 



12 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 

lamb, give me too a place in thy bosom. Set me 
as a seal on thy heart. 

And now let ns go back to the house. It is 
strangely changed. It is silent and cheerless, 
gloomy even. When did I enter this door, with- 
out the greeting of those lips and eyes, that I 
shall greet no more ? Can the absence of but 
one produce so great a change so soon ? When 
one of the children was away on a visit, we did 
not feel the absence as we do now. That was for 
a time ; this is for ever. He will not return. 
Hark ! I thought for a moment it was the child, 
but it was only my own heart's yearning for the 
lost. He will not come again. 

W w w w 

Such thoughts as these have been the thoughts 
of many in the season of their first grief. 

As heart answereth to the heart, there is a 
wondrous likeness in the sorrow of parents over 
the death of their little ones. The rich and the 
poor, the learned and the ignorant are alike, 
when they sit by the side of their babes in the 
struggles of death ; and when they follow them 
to the grave, their hearts are true to nature, and 
nature mourns when the loved are torn away. 

One of the iron sort of men, a man of war, 
sent for me to come and see him in his affliction. 



THE CHILD IS DEAD. 13 

His child, a sweet girl of three or four years 
only, had been taken with the croup, and died 
before medical relief could be obtained. He met 
me in his hall, and fell on my neck, and wept 
like a child. I had never seen him weep before. 
I had never thought that such a man as he, had 
tears to shed. And I do not know that he would 
have wept, had the pestilence or the sword swept 
off all the rest of those whom he loved, and 
spared the infant that nestled in his bosom. 

If this is a weakness to those who have never 
tasted the cup, I am sure that none of them will 
be offended with these words, for they will not 
read them till they are weeping too. To be a 
brother in sorrow, you must have suffered. Even 
the Lord of heaven had to become a man, that 
he might, by his experience, learn to bear our 
sorrows. And then he wept with those who 
wept. 

Some time ago I was at the funeral of the child 
of a pastor ; and when the neighboring minister, 
who had been called upon to bury his brother's 
child, had closed his words of sympathy and com- 
fort, the stricken father rose and said : '' When I 
have sought to minister to your consolation in 
the times of your affliction, weeping with you 
over your dying children, you have often said to 



14 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDKEN. 

me tliat I knew notliiiig of tlie anguish, and could 
not sympathize with, you in your loss. I feel it 
now. I never did before." And then he pointed 
them to the sources of comfort that God was 
opmg to his soul, and asked them to come to the 
fountain and drink. The house in which we were 
then assembled stood on a hill-side, overlooking 
a beautiful river, and, on the other side of it, 
" sweet fields stood drest in living green." The 
pastor went on to say — and there was a strange 
power and beauty, too, in the words as they fell 
from his lips in the midst of tears — '' Often, as I 
have stood on the borders of this stream, and 
looked over to the fair fields on the other shore, 
I have felt but little interest in the peoj)le or the 
place in full view before me. The river separates 
me from them, and my thoughts and affections 
were here. But a few months ago, one of my 
children moved across to the other side, and took 
up his residence there. Since that time, my heart 
has been there also. In the morning, when I rise 
and look out toward the east, I think of my child 
who is over there, and again and again through 
the day I think of him, and the other side of the 
river is always in my thoughts with the child 
who is gone there to dwell. And now, since 
another of my children has crossed the river of 



THE CHILD IS DEAD. 15 

death, and has gone to dwell on the other side, 
my heart is drawn out toward heaven and the 
inhabitants, of heaven as it was never drawn be- 
fore. I supposed that heaven was dear to me ; 
that my Father was there, and my friends were 
there, and that I had a great interest in heaven, 
but I liad no child there ! Now I have ; and I 
never shall think of heaven, but with the memory 
of that dear child who is to be among its inhab- 
itants for ever." 

The Rev. Dr. Pye was called to part with two 
children, a son and a daughter. A few days 
afterwards, he wrote a letter as if it had come 
from the girl just after she had ceased to breathe, 
and a little before her brother's death. Here is 
an extract from the letter which he supposes his 
child to write : 

" It was He who made us that called us awaj^, 
and we cheerfully obeyed the summons ; and I 
must now tell you, though you already know it, 
that he expects from you not only that you 
meekly and calmly submit to such a seemingly 
severe dispensation of his providence, but that 
you also rejoice with me in it, because it is the 
will and pleasure of otir divine Father. I, young 
as I was, am now an inhabitant of heaven, and 
already see the beauty and harmony of that little 



16 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDEEN. 

chain of events wMcIl related to my sliort abode 
in your world, and even tlie manner of my leav- 
ing it; and when you see tlie things as they 
really are, and not as they now appear, yon will 
confess and adore the Divine goodness, even in 
taking ns so soon from your embraces. 

" Ask not' why it has pleased God so early to 
remove ns; we sufficiently answered the great 
end of our being, if, while living, at the same 
time that we gave you pleasure, you were dis- 
posed to lead us, by your examples and precepts, 
into the paths of virtue and religion ; and if 
now, by the loss of us, you become examples of 
patience and submission to the Divine will." 

" Let, therefore, all the little incidents in our 
past lives, the remembrance of which is too apt 
to renew your sorrow, be so many occasions of 
your joy, inasmuch as they may recall the pleas- 
•ant ideas you once delighted in ; and let the dis- 
maying and melancholy remembrance of our 
sickness and early death be changed into cheer- 
ing and bright ideas of what we now enjoy, and 
what you, I hope, will one day see us in posses- 
sion of." 

There was something very comforting in this 
thought, of the child departed sending back a 
message to the mourning parent. I doubt not 



THE CHILD IS DEAD. 11 

that children in heaven are astonished, if they 
know, that their parents here are grieving on 
their account. " If our parents only knew what 
we have gained, how soon they would dry their 
tears !" 

The lady of Sir Stamford Raffles, in India, was 
overwhelmed with grief for the loss of a favorite 
child, unable to bear the sight of her other child- 
ren, unable to bear even the light of day. She 
was lying upon her couch, with a feeling of deso- 
lation that was fast growing into despair, when 
she was addressed by a poor, ignorant woman, 
one of the natives, who had been employed in 
the nursery : " I am come," said the servant, " be- 
cause you have been here many days shut up in 
a dark room, and no one dares to come near you. 
Are you not ashamed to grieve in this manner, 
when you ought to be thanking God for having 
given you the most beautiful child that ever was 
seen? Did any one ever see him or speak of 
him without admiring him ? And, instead of 
letting this child continue in this world till he 
should be worn out with trouble and sorrow, has 
not God taken him to heaven in all his beauty ? 
What would you have more ? For shame ! leave 
off weeping, and let me open a window." 

It is not always wise to bid a mourner '' leave 



18 



DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 



off weeping." Tears are sometimes good for the 
soul. That grief is very bitter which can not find 
tears. I have often wished that they would come, 
and relieve this dry and dreadful pressure on the 
heart. But if we do not cease to weep, by all 
means let us open the window. Let us have the 
light of God's countenance shining upon us like 
the sun at noon. To shut ourselves up in the 
dark to brood over our sorrows, is the worst of 
all remedies for grief. To cherish our afflictions, 
as if they were to be indulged, and petted, and 
kept fresh as long as possible, and as if it were 
wrong for us to go out into the world, and mingle 
in the duties and pleasures of social Christian life, 
is a sinful yielding to the power of a dispensation 
that was not designed to be thus received. 

The pious Flavel says — and there is great wis- 
dom in these words of his — " Mourner, whatever 
may be your grief for the death of your children, 
it might have been still greater for their life. 
Bitter experience once led a good man to say, 
^ It is better to weep for ten children dead, than 
for one living.' Eemember the heart-piercing 
affliction of David, whose son sought his life. 
Your love for your children wiU hardly admit 
of the thought of such a thing as possible in your 
own case. They appeared innocent and amiable ; 



THE CHILD IS DEAD. 19 

and you. fondly believed that, through your care 
and prayers, they would have become the joy of 
your hearts. But parents much more frequently 
see the vices of their children than their virtues. 
And even should your children prove amiable 
and promising, you might live to be the wretched 
witness of their sufferings. Some parents have 
felt unutterable agonies of this kind. God may 
have taken the lamented objects of your affection 
from the evil to come." 

A mother, suddenly convinced that her child 
was dying, sent for a man of God to come and 
pray for the child's life. " Shall I not pray," 
said he, " that the will of the Lord may be done, 
and that you may have strength to suffer all that 
holy will ?" " No," she answered in the agony 
of her heart, " no, no ! I want my child to live. 
Pray for his life, or do not pray at all." The 
child lived, and lived to be a man, a great man ; 
but oh ! how wicked — and to pierce his mother's 
heart with pangs of anguish which made that 
night almost a night of joy, when she would not 
let her infant die. We do not know from what 
our infants are saved, when they are saved from 
draining the cup of life. 

" In another life," says Fenelon, " we shall see 
and understand the wonders of His goodness that 



2G DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 

have escaped us in tliis ; and we sliall rejoice at 
•what has made us weep on earth. Alas ! in our 
present darkness, we can not see either our true 
good or evil. If God were to gratify our desires, 
it would be our ruin. He saves us by breaking 
the ties that bind us to earth. We complain 
because God loves us better than we know how 
to love ourselves. We weep because he has 
taken those whom we love away from temptation 
and sin. God takes the poisonous cup from our 
hands, and we weep as a child weeps when its 
mother takes away the shining weapon with 
which it would pierce its own breast. 

'' Oh ! consider, ere you accuse Providence for 
the stroke, that this death, apparently so untime- 
ly, is possibly the greatest instance toward you 
both of the mercy and love of God. The crea- 
ture so dear to you may have been taken from 
some sad reverse of fortune, or from the commis- 
sion of some great crime, which might have 
endangered his salvation. To secure this, God 
has removed him from temptation. The pang 
of separation is indeed most bitter, yet our mer- 
ciful Father does not needlessly afflict his crea- 
tures. He wounds only to heal the diseases of 
our souls. Let us, then, in the hour of our cala- 
mity, hold fast by this conviction, and say with 



THE CHILD IS DEAD. 21 

Job, ' Thougli he slay me, yet will I trust in 
Mm.' His mercy can be my support bere, and 
my recompense bereafter." 

Tbis is tbe spirit of Cbristian submission to tbe 
will of Heaven. Witb sucb a spirit is tbe grace 
tbat says: "Even so, Fatber, for so it seemetb 
good in tby sigbt." And tbis same boly Fenelon 
was called to tbe trial of bis faitb. Standing by 
tbe coffin of one wbom be most tenderly loved, 
and for wbom be would most cbeerfully bave 
died a tbousand deatbs, be cried : 

" Tbere be lies, and all my worldly bappiness 
lies dead witb bim. But if tbe turning of a straw 
would call bim back to life, I would not for ten 
tbousand worlds be tbe turner of tbat straw, in 
opposition to tbe will of God." 

"I bave bad six cbildren," said Mr. Eliot, 
" and I bless God for bis free grace, tbey are all 
witb Cbrist, or in Cbrist ; and my mind is now at 
rest concerning tbem. My desire was tbat tbey 
sbould bave served Cbrist on eartb ; but if God 
will cboose to bave tbem serve bim in beaven, I 
bave notbing to object to it. His will be done." 

Yes, I will say so likewise : His will be done. 
It is tbe best and wisest will ; and tbougb it does 
darken all my prospects, and disappoint a tbou- 
sand cberisbed bopes, I know tbat He wbo bas 



22 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDEEN. 

done it doeth all tMngs well. I can trnst him 
for this, as I have never trusted him yet, when 
his promises have failed. 

" I sincerely sympathize with yon," says Dr. 
Erskine, to a friend who had lost an only son, 
" in yonr heavy trial. I have drunk deep of the 
same cup ; of nine sons^ only one survives. From 
what I repeatedly felt, I can form an idea what 
you must feel. I can not, I dare not say, weep 
not. Jesus wept at the grave of Lazarus, and 
surely he allows you to weep. But oh ! let hope 
and joy mitigate your heaviness. I know not 
how this shall work for your good ; tut it is 
enough that God knows. He that said, ' All 
things shall work together for good to them that 
love God,' excepts not from this promise the 
sorest trial. You devoted your son to God ; you 
can not doubt that he accepted the surrender. 
If he has been hid in the chamber of the grave 
from the evil of sin and from the evil of suffer- 
ing, let not your eye be evil, when God is good. 
What you chiefly wished for him, and prayed 
on his behalf, was spiritual and heavenly bless- 
ings. K the greatest thing you wished for is 
accomplished, at the season and in the man- 
ner Infinite "Wisdom saw best, refuse not to be 
comforted. You know not what work and what 



THE CHILD IS DEAD. 23 

joy have been waiting for Mm in tliat other 
world." 

An old tomb-stone bears tMs epitaph, and one 
miglit think an angel wliispers it to a mourning 
mother's ear : 

" Weep not, my mother, weep not ; I am blest, 
But must leave heaven, if I come to thee ; 
For I am where the weary are at rest. 
The wicked cease from troubling. Come to me,^^ 

^ ^ ^' ^ 

I know there are thousands of hearts that will 
read these chapters, not with sympathy only, but 
with comfort and sacred peace. There is scarce- 
ly a house in the world, into which the sorrow 
has not come which follows the death of a child. 
It is almost literally true — 

" There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
But one dead lamb is there ; 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
But has one vacant chair." 

The child is dead. Our child is dead. Let 
us now go to the book of God, and l^n its 1^- 
sons in the time of our affliction. 



2* 



DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 



€m I bring \m Ml ^m? 



The child of David, tlie bard and king, was 
dead. His son, Ms favorite son, Ms precious, well- 
beloved, best-beloved son was dead. For seven 
long, anxious days and nights, wMle the scale 
trembled in suspense, lie had fasted and wept. 
Bangs' children die : 



■Death, with impartial fate, 



Knocks at the palace door and cottage gate." 

The crown often rests on an aching head, and 
the royal purple covers a sad heart, when the 
messenger of the grave steals into the king's 
chamber, and stops the breath of his babes. It 
is so in ours. 

The Mnd attendants of the stricken father rea- 
soned wisely, as they reason who do not under- 
stand the power of true religion. They said 
^mong themselves : He was weeping and praying 
^todle th^ child was yet alive ; how he will vex 
himself, now much greater will be his anguish, 
now the child is dead ! 

They mistook the man. They judged him by 
their own standard, and were wrong. The pious 



CAN I BKIKa HIM BACK AGAIN? 25 

father drew from a deeper fountain, and found 
waters they knew not of. He reasoned on other 
principles than those which lie on the surface of 
things, and he was strengthened. 

He saw the servants whispering, and thought 
it was probably all over with the child. It was 
a sign that death was in the house, when even 
the servants would not speak above their breath. 
The dead can not hear, but the living are still 
when death is at hand. 

And David asked, '' Is the child dead ?" 

And they answered, "" He is dead." 

Then David arose from the earth, and washed 
and anointed himself, and changed his apparel, 
and came into the Tioiise of the Lord^ and woe- 
shipped. 

Then he came to his own house, and when he 
required, they set bread before him, and he did 
eat. And the servants were filled with wonder 
that a father thus stricken with grief should so 
suddenly find comfort in his sorrow ; and they 
said unto him : 

" What thing is this that thou hast done ? 
Thou didst fast and weep for the chiM while it 
was alive, but when the child was dead, thou 
didst arise and eat bread." 

And David answered : " While the child was 
2 



26 



DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDBEK. 



yet alive, I fasted and wept ; for I said, ' "Wlio 
can tell whetlier God will be gracious to me, that 
tlie child may live V But now lie is dead, where- 
fore should I fast ? Can I bring him back again ? 
I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me." 
" Can I hring Mm hack again f " A sad inquiry. 
Ca7i I bring him back again? Not Would I? 
Perhaps he would. Perhaps we would. But qxe 
I ? Had tears availed to save, the child would not 
have died. Had prayer prevailed, the boy would 
yet be living, the joy of his parents' hearts, and 
the light of their eyes. But he is dead. He is 
gone. Could human skill avert the death-blow, 
he would have been saved. But all was done 
that skill could do, and yet he died. And there 
he lies. Can I bring him to life again ? I may 
weep, but my tears fall on his icy brow, and he 
feels them not. His heart is still. He breathes 
no more. The love and wit of men are alike in 
vain to restore the spirit of this lifeless clay. 
Speak to it, and it hears not. Eass it, and its lips 
are cold. Press it to your bosom, and it is not 
warmed.|^ The child is dead, dead ; and can I 
bring it back again ? Ah ! if I could ! If rivers 
of waters running down my eyes, if oceans of 
tears would float his spirit back to this deserted 
shell that once was animated with his precious 



HJ] IS KOT LOST, THOUGH GONE. 27 

soul, I would weep day and niglit for my de- 
parted. 

But it is fruitless. And it is not tlie part of a 
rational being to expend the energies of Ms na- 
ture on that wMch. avails him nothing. This 
may be the least and lowest source of comfort 
that reason offers to a mind distressed, but it is 
the dictate of wisdom, and grace adds its sanc- 
tions to the conclusion forced upon us by the law 
of nature. It is the will of God, and we can not 
change the purpose if we would. 

"We can not bring him back again. Then and 
therefore let us lay his ashes in their kindred 
dust, close the green turf over his mouldering 
form, and turn to the Book of God for consolation 
in the day of our calamity. 



It is clearly revealed that God employs the 
spirits whom he has made, to minister unto those 
whom he delights to tend with peculiar care. 
"With the mode of angelic or spiritual intercourse, 
we are not acquainted. That disembodied, spirits, 



28 DEATH OF LITTLIl CHILDBEK*- 

the evil and the good, are permitted to reach our 
minds and exert a power on onr spirits, is not to 
be doubted, though we may be unable to respond 
to that influence, and, at the moment of its com- 
munication, may be unconscious of its presence. 

"Millions of spiritual beings walk the earth 
unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep." 
And we believe, with many others, that if we 
were suddenly divested of this mortal, we should 
find ourselves in a vast amphitheatre, reaching to 
the throne of God, filled with spirits, the unseen 
witnesses, the clouds of witnesses with whom we 
are encompassed continually. There is a place 
where the Most High dwells in light that no 
man can approach ; where the darkness of excess- 
ive brightness hangs over and around his throne, 
making Tieaven^ as heaven is not elsewhere in 
the universe of God. But neither time nor place 
may with propriety be affirmed of spiritual ex- 
istence. "When Gabriel leaves his throne to exe- 
cute the high behests of the Almighty, there is 
no iatervening time or space between his depar- 
ture and his presence, where his work is to be 
done. "We use the terms that are adapted to our 
mode of existence, and are lost when we attempt 
to express the life of those whose nature is in 
another scale and order of beings than our own. 



HE IS NOT LOST, THOUGH GONE. 29 

It is, therefore, scriptnral and rational to suppose 
that the spirits of our departed friends are around 
us by day and night ; not away from God : his 
presence fills immensity ; he is everywhere pre- 
sent. If an angel or the soul of a saint should 
take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the 
uttermost part of the sea, there to be with us or 
with those we love, even there the gracious pre- 
sence of God would dwell, and the sanctified 
would find heaven as blessed and glorious as in 
the temple of which the Lamb is the light. 

We must be near to one another, to see and be 
seen, to hear and be heard. Our bodily organs 
are of necessity restricted, and hence we have the 
impression that spirits must be bound by the 
same fetters. But this is an illusion that vanishes, 
when we reflect that speech, and sound, and 
sight are attributes belonging to spirits only to 
accommodate us in our conception of communica- 
tion with them. ThougJit is the language of the 
soul. "Words are needed to convey that thought 
through the organs of the body to another soul. 
If there were no intervening body, I know not 
that the soul has any need of words. Sympathy 
is doubtless felt through all the spiritual world, 
without those channels of intelligence that we 
must open and explore. There is joy among the 



80 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 

angels wlien a sinner repents, or a saint expires, 
long before tlie news is wMspered from throne 
to throne, through, the palaces of the skies. The 
thrill is more than electric. It is instant and 
everywhere in the empire of holy mind. 

If, then, there is such conscious sympathy 
among the spirits of the blest, who will deny 
that they, whose angels do always behold the 
face of the Father, are also conversant with those 
whom they have left on earth ? The dead are 
with us and around us, and though gone, are not 
lost. Wherever, in the world of spirits, God 
may have fixed the habitation of his throne, it is 
right to believe that his essential presence is 
everywhere, and his saints are where they can 
be the happiest, and best perform his high and 
holy will. 

All this proceeds upon the doctrine, that the 
souls of infants do immediately pass into glory, 
when released from the prison of the flesh. This 
truth is too plainly taught in the Holy Scrip- 
tures, and is too firmly rooted in the human 
heart, to be doubted. " Of such is the kingdom 
of heaven," was said by Him who said, " Suffer 
the little children to come unto me." The royal 
prophet evidently recognized this truth, when 
he comforted himself by the assurance that he 



INFINITE WISDOM TOOK HIM AWAY. 31 

should meet Ms cliild again. To me it has always 
been a delightful truth, that these little ones are, 
in great kindness, transplanted to a more conge- 
nial chme, and spared the ills that they must 
meet and buffet in a world of sin. So that I 
have often said, ''I thank God when an infant 
dies." But this is gratitude felt only when the 
children of others die. 

Yet it is a blessed thought, that when one of 
our children dies in infancy, it sleeps in Jesus. 
We are sure of one in heaven. The rest may 
grow up in sin, and die in sin, and be lost, but 
one is safe. Thanks to God, the lost is found, 
the dead is alive. ''The Lord gave, and the 
Lord hath taken away ; blessed be the name of 
the Lord." '' They only can be said to possess a 
child for ever, who have lost one in infancy." 



Infinite mi^m \m\ Ijim stoi|> 

" My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither 
are your ways my ways, saith the Lord." The 
truth of this we feel when clouds and darkness 



32 



DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 



liang around tlie throne. And then we listen 
again, and the same voice adds : " For as the hea- 
vens are higher than the earth, so are my ways 
higher than yonr ways, and my thoughts than 
your thoughts." 

Nothing but infinite presumption would chal- 
lenge the wisdom of the Di^dne decrees. What 
is man, that he should venture to doubt that He 
who knows all things from the beginning, before 
whom the future, with all its changes, is for ever 
present, better understands than we what is the 
most for his glory, and the good of his govern- 
ment ? Could we behold the varied and benign 
results that, in his providence and grace, are to 
be the fruit of those events which we regard as 
painfully undesirable; could we see the glory 
that they will bring eventually to Him whose 
glory is the ultimate and righteous object of all 
that is, so that around the death of an infant, as 
around the fall of an empire, cluster considera- 
tions that bear upon the joys of saints, and the 
services of angels, and the honor of Him who 
sitteth in the heavens, God over all, we would 
not merely acquiesce in the dispensation^ but we 
should rejoice in it with joy unspeakable. It is 
often the severest portion of our afflictions, that 
we can not see why they are sent upon us. Our 



IKFINITE WISDOM TOOK HIM AWAY. 33 

faitli is demanded, tliat we may believe wliere 
we can not see. '' What thou knowest not now, 
tlion shalt know hereafter." ^' Blessed are they 
who have not seen, and yet have believed." That 
faith is grounded on our knowledge that He who 
orders all our ways is too wise to be mistaken. 
His purposes are eternal. When this earth shall 
have become wearied with rolling, and all the 
stars have fallen from their places, away in the 
future, millions of ages beyond the judgment of 
the great day, the death of a babe in the house 
will be working out its results in the eternal 
purposes of God. "We may not see till then, 
perhaps not then. How far off it may be, none 
can tell. But it is all right, and we shall find it 
to be so hereafter. It requires no very exalted 
order of faith to adopt this sentiment, and let 
the soul lie down on it confidingly, and look up 
trustingly, and smile serenely, when the hand of 
God presses heavily. 



Oh ! let my trembling soul be still, 
While darkness veils this mortal eye, 

And wait thy wise, Thy holy will, 
Wrapped yet in tears and mystery. 

I can not, Lord, thy purpose see ; * 

Yet all is well, since ruled by thee. 
2* 



34 



DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDEEK^. 



Thus, trusting in thy love, I tread 

The narrow path of duty on. 
What though some cherished joys are fled ? 

What though some flattering dreams are gone ? 
Yet purer, brighter joys remain : 
Why should my spirit then complain ? 



Mntt mt tm^ Hit Cliilir. 

" Like as a father pitietL. liis cliildren, so tlie 
Lord pitieth. tliem tliat fear hirri. For lie know- 
eth. our frame ; lie rememberetli tliat we are 
dust." 

The sovereignty of God we are bonnd, as his 
creatures, to acknowledge and adore. He has a 
right to do with his own what he will ; and when 
to this we join his wisdom, it is easy to construct 
an argument that compels submission. So the 
afflicted father, whose example is our theme, was 
affected when he said : "I was dumb, I opened 
not my mouth, because thou didst it." And 
then he cried out, under the same emotion, " Re- 
move thy stroke away from me : I am consumed 
by the blow of thy hand." This is not the high- 



INFINITE LOVE CALLED THE CHILD. 35 

est style of Christian confidence. It is right ; but 
it is not tlie sweet and joyous trust of Mm wlio 
rose from the earth when his child was dead, 
and washed, and changed his apparel, and went 
into the house of God and worshipped. He is 
not only our God, he is our Father. He taught 
us by the lips of his Son to call him our Father ; 
and '' whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth. 
" We have had fathers of our flesh who corrected 
us, and we gave them reverence ; shall we not 
much rather be in subjection unto the Father of 
spirits, and live ? For they verily for a few days 
chastened us after their own pleasure ; but he for 
our profit, that we might be partakers of his 
holiness.*" 

We have chastened our own children. We 
did it not in anger, much less in malice, or with 
a desire to do an injury to the one we loved. 
And when our Father's hand is laid on us, it is 
surely our duty to bear in mind that his love for 
his children infinitely excels our love for those 
who climb on our knees and hang on our necks. 
Oh ! was it not love that gave the child ; that 
gave us such a child ; that made it lovely in our 
eyes, clothing it with beauty as with a garment, 
and shedding upon its form and spirit those gen- 
tle, winning ways that wound, about our hearts, 



36 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN". 

and rendered the object of our affections jnst the 
cliild wlLom we would wisli to keep ? We bless- 
ed God for giving. But it is the same God who 
hath taken away. He never changes. Andi faith 
assures us that it is greater love that takes than 
gives. Was not the lamb his own ? And did 
he not gather it to his own bosom ? If he had 
not loved it, he would not have taken it. Was 
it not his own jewel ? And did he not set it as 
a gem in his own crown ? Let the thought of 
murmuring be rebuked by the following beauti- 
ful story from the Mishna of the Eabbins : 

" During the absence of the Rabbi Meir, his 
two sons died, both of them of uncommon beau- 
ty, and enlightened in the divine law. His wife 
bore them to her chamber, and laid them upon 
her bed. When Rabbi Meir returned, his first 
inquiry was for his sons. His wife reached to 
him a goblet ; he praised the Lord at the going 
out of the Sabbath, drank, and again asked, 
^ Where are my sons?' 'They are not far off,' 
she said, placing food before him that he might 
eat. He was in a genial mood, and when he had 
said grace after meat, she thus addressed him : 
' Rabbi,, with thy permission, I would fain pro- 
pose to thee one question.' 'Ask it then, my 
love,' replied he. ' A few days ago, a person in- 



INFINITE LOVE CALLED THE CHILD. 37 

trusted some jewels to my custody, and now lie 
demands them ; should I give tliem back to him ?' 
' This is a question,' said the Eabbi, ' which my 
wife should not have thought it necessary to ask. 
What ! wouldst thou hesitate or be reluctant to 
restore to every one his own V 'No,' she replied, 
' but yet I thought it best not to restore them 
without acquainting thee therewith.' She then 
led him to the chamber, and, stepping to the bed, 
took the white covering from the dead bodies. 
'Ah ! my sons, my sons,' loudly lamented their 
father. ' My sons ! the light of my eyes, and the 
light of my understanding : I was your father, 
but you were my teachers in the law.' The 
mother turned away and wept bitterly. At 
length she took her husband by the hand and 
said : ' Rabbi, didst thou not teach me that we 
must not be reluctant to restore that which was 
intrusted to our keeping ? See ; the Lord gave, 
and the Lord hath taken away, and blessed be 
the name of the Lord.' ' Blessed be the name 
of the Lord,' echoed the Rabbi, ' and blessed be 
his holy name for ever.' " 

We should esteem it a mark of honor and 
peculiar regard, if the king should choose one of 
our children to be taken into his family, and 
trained for the throne. There are thousands of 



38 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 

little children besides onrs, whom God might 
have taken, if he had been pleased ; but he loved 
ours so much, and loved us so much, that he 
came into our humble household, and gently 
bore away from our arms our infant child, and 
took him into his own family, and placed him 
among the brightest and best, and made him a 
king. There is love in that — ^precious love — a 
Father's love. 

There is love in thus chastising us when we 
wander, and He would draw us back. I have 
seen a shepherd striving to drive his flock into 
the fold, while they would refuse to enter, and 
prefer to run off into the highwaj^-s, where they 
were hi danger of being torn and lost. At 
length, when wearied with efforts to urge them 
in, he takes a lamb into his arms, and folds it 
gently in his bosom, and walks into the inclosure, 
while the mother follows, and the whole flock 
come on, and are soon folded in the place of safe- 
ty and peace. So have I seen a family whoix 
God would win to his house and home in heaven ; 
but they became worldly-minded, and wandered 
away among the dangerous paths of a deceitful, 
unsatisfying earth ; and when his calls and com- 
mands had been lost upon them, he has taken 
their lamb, their pet lamb, their youngest child, 



INFINITE LOVE CALLED THE CHILD. 39 

and laid it in Ms own bosom ; and then, oli ! then, 
how readily the mother and all the little flock 
have followed him to the gate of the celestial 
city, into which he has entered with their dar- 
ling in his arms ! 

It was love, infinite love, that ordered such a 
plan ; and it will be felt the more, the more the 
heart is softened, and the eyes are opened to 
behold the hand that does it. 

" Before I was afflicted, I went astray." " It 
is good for me that I have been afflicted." So 
David was able to say while yet in the honse of 
hk pilgrimage ; and so shall we say, if not now, 
when we come to sit down by the river of the 
water of life, onr children with ns, broken house- 
holds reunited, and talk over the trials of the 
way by which we have been led, and admire and 
adore the grace that directed the blow that laid 
our early hopes in ruins, blasted our fond domes- 
tic joys, buried our babes, and broke our hearts. 



40 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN, 



We desire our cliildren's happiness ; we pray 
and labor for it ; we are willing to make great 
sacrifices of our comfort to secure it for them. 
In sickness, we forget our own kealtk and lives 
for tke sake of tkeirs. We watck tkem, and toil 
for tkem, and would die for tkem. We more 
tkan die for tkem sometimes. 

And if we grieve wken tkeir happiness calls 
them from us, our grief is selfish ; it is for our- 
selves, and not for them, we mourn. But we 
should not mourn, if we knew what he has gained 
whom we have lost. Instantly on being released 
from the body, the spirit of the infant returns to 
God who gave it. Endowed with capacities that, 
if permitted to expand and improve on earth, 
would in fifty years, perhaps, have made him 
wiser than Newton, or Plato, or Solomon, it 
rushes into the mysteries of the Divine Mind, 
and, on wings of thought such as angels use in 
rising into the regions of knowledge that pass all 
understanding, he begins his flight, and stretches 
onward and right onward for ever. He never 
tires. No weakness, no sickness, no pain, to 



THE CHILD IS HAPPIER NOW. 41 

make him pause or falter in his upward way. 
He bears himself into the presence of the Om- 
niscient, becomes a disciple in the school of Christ, 
flies on with Moses, and David, and John, and 
learns from them the wonderful things of heaven, 
the mysteries of the kingdom ; and thus, ever 
advancing, he rises nearer and still nearer to the 
comprehension of Him who is still infinitely 
above and beyond his last and loftiest reach. 
And what a change is this ! Yesterday, an in- 
fant in his mother's arms, or a child amused with 
a rattle or a straw ; to-day, a seraph in the midst 
of seraphim, burning with excessive glory in the 
presence of God. 

Happiness is the fruit of holiness. "Washed 
in the blood of the everlasting covenant, and 
sanctified by the Holy Ghost, he is now among 
the holy, as happy as any who are there. Those 
faculties of mind, expanded in the atmosphere of 
heaven, are employed in the praise of that grace 
that called him so soon from Nature's darkness 
into the glorious light of eternity ; the gloom of 
sin scarce shading the brightness of his rising 
sun, before the noon of heaven burst upon him. 
As if an angel had lost his way, and for a few 
days had wandered among the sons of men, till 
his companions suddenly discovered him in this 



42 DEATH OP LITTLE CHILDEEN. 

wilderness, and caught Mm, and bore Lmi off to 
Ms native residence among tlie blessed ; so the 
cMld is taken kindly in the morning of its wan- 
derings, and gathered among the holy, and 
brought home to his Father's house. How pure 
his spirit now ; how happy he is now ! 

**Apostles, martyrs, prophets, there 
Around my Saviour stand ;" 

and among them I behold the infant forms of 
those whose little graves were wet with the tears 
of parental love. I hear their infant voices in 
the song. Do you see in the midst of that bright 
and blessed throng the child you mourn ? I ask 
not now if you would call him back again. I 
fear you would ! But I ask you, " Whai would 
tempt him hack again .^" Bring out the play- 
things that he loved on earth, the toys that filled 
his childish heart with gladness, and pleased him 
on the nursery-floor, tbe paradise that was ever 
bright when he smiled within it ; hold them up, 
and ask him to throw away his harp, and leave 
the side of his new-found friends, and the bosom 
of his Saviour ; and would he come, to be a boy 
again, to live and laugh and love again, to sicken, 
suffer, die, dindi perhaps be lost ! I think he would 
stay. I think I would shut the door if I saw him 
coming. 



THE CHILD IS HAPPIER NOW. 43 

A father, wlio had buried the youngest of 
three boys, exclaims, in words familiar : 

** I can not tell what form is his, 
What look he weareth now, 
N'or guess how bright a glory crowns 
His shining seraph-brow. 

" The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, 
The bliss that he doth feel. 
Are numbered with the secret things 
Which God doth not reveal. 

*' But I know — for God hath told me this — 
That now he is at rest. 
Where other blessed infants are. 
On their loving Saviour's breast. 

" Whatever befalls his brethren twain, 
His bliss can never cease ; 
Their lot may here be grief and pain, 
But his is perfect peace. 

" It may be that the tempter's wiles 
Their souls from bliss can sever ; 
But if our own poor faith fail not. 
He must be ours for ever. 

*' When we think of what our darling is, 
And what he still must be ; 
When we think on that world's perfect bliss, 
And this world's misery ; 

'^ When we groan beneath this load of sin. 
And feel this grief and pain ; 
Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two. 
Than have him here again,^' 



44 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDKEJST. 



'^ I SHALL go to him, but lie shall not return to 



me." 



" Shall we know our friends in heaven ?" is a 
question that I will not here discuss. It is to 
my mind obvious that the personality of each of 
us is to be preserved distinctly in the world to 
come ; and whether the ties that are formed on 
earth are to be reunited and perpetuated there, 
or not, we shall undoubtedly recognize the spirit 
allied to our own, and that once breathed the 
same vital air with us. Those who have died in 
Christ, the Saviour will bring with him; and 
those who wait his appearance shall meet those 
they loved, when they come in the air with their 
glorified Lord. 

Very true it is, that the Lamb in the midst of 
the throne is the chief attraction of heaven, and 
that all eyes and all hearts will turn toward him 
with infinite longings that are never satisfied. 

A pious young man, of ardent filial affection, 
buried his beloved mother, and afterwards was 
frequently heard to say, that one of the chief 
pleasures he anticipated in the prospect of hea- 



WE SHALL SEE HIM AGAIK. 45 

ven was meeting again his sainted motlier. But 
tliat young man, on Ms death-bed, was heard to 
say : " It seems to me, if I am so happy as to enter 
heaven, that I shall wish to spend a thousand 
years, before I think of any thing else, in looking 
upon my Saviour." 

Yes, blessed Saviour ; and in thy bosom nestles 
the lamb from our fold. "We can not look at 
thee, without beholding him. We can not think 
of him, without remembering thy sweet words : 
" Suffer the little children to come unto me." 

It is not, then, the illusion of fancy, it is the 
dictate of Christian faith, to look toward the 
holy city, and within its gates of pearl to see the 
little one that has been taken from us, now a 
pure beatified spirit, robed in celestial beauty, 
with a crown on his head, and a karp in his 
hand, beckoning us to come up thither. 

Oh ! it was sweet to hear his voice in the glee 
of infancy; to feel his lips as they pressed the 
fount of life, or met our own in the kiss of pa- 
rental love ; to listen to his infant prayer, or his 
gentle murmur, when we kummed the evening 
lullaby. 

" His presence was like sunshine, 

Sent down to gladden earth ; 

To comfort us in all our griefs, 

And sweetcQ all our mirth." 



46 DEATH O^ LITTLE CHILBREK. 

But lie is brigliter, fairer, happier there ; and 
we shall soon rejoin him in onr Father's house, a 
reunited family, all the more blessed because we 
have been for a little while separated, and then 
we shall part no more for ever. This is the com- 
fort of faith, the assurance of hope ; and when 
we come to sit down in the mansions on high, 
with our children around us, those children over 
whose early graves we wept in bitterness, we 
shall be amazed to think how short has been the 
separation^ and how blessed the love that ordered 
the parting, and permitted the meeting, in the 
presence of God. 

" Oh ! when a mother meets on high 
The babe she lost in infancy, 
Hath she not then, for pains and fears, 

The day of woe, the watchful night, 
For all her sorrows, all her tears, 

An o^er-payment of delight ?" 



l^otniB 



That name ! how often every day 
We spake it and we heard ; 

It was to us, 'mid tasks or play, 
A common household word. 

'Tis breathed yet, that name ; but oh I 
How solemn now the sound ! 

One of the sanctities which throw 
Such awe our homes around. 



faenis oit tlje ieatfj of Ifittle Cljilirr^t, 



% i t t I c iEctr^, 

From the group of little faces 

One is gone — 
In the old familiar places 

Sad and lone, 
Father, Mother, meek-eyed Brother, 

Sit and moan. 

Sit and moan for one departed, 

Pure and mild, 
Little Mary, gentle-hearted. 

Sinless child — 
And as nestling memories thicken, 

Griefs grow "svild. 

Home once bright how cold and dreary ! 

Shadows deep 
Fall on forms and hearts aweary, 

Eyes that weep — 
Thought is in the church-yard seeking 

One asleep. 



50 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDEEJST. 

Still the merry laugh deceiving 

Fills the ear, 
Tiny arms yet fondly cleaving 

Dry the tear ; 
jFoot-falls, silvery foot-falls, patter 

Far and near. 

Ears instinctive, pause to hearken, 

All in vain — 
Days drag on and skies shall darken 

O'er with pain. 
But the heart will find its lost one 

Ne'er again ! 

From the treasured fire-side faces 

Here to-day, 
From the tender warm embraces, 

Dropped away. 
Sleeps she 'mid forgotten sleepers 

In the clay. 

Ah ! what weary numbers sighing 

To be free, 
Little Mary, would be lying 

Low with thee ! 
Where no care nor eating sorrow 

E'er shall be. 

Weep not when ye tell the story 

Of the dead — 
'Tis a sunbeam joined the Glory 

Overhead ! 
" For of such sweet babes is heaven," 

Jesus caid. 



MY CHILD. 51 



I CAN not make him dead ! 

His fair sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round m j study-chair ; 

Yet, when my eyes, now dim 

With tears, I turn to him, 
The vision vanishes — he is not there ! 

I walk my parlor-floor. 

And, through the open door, 
I hear a foot-fall on the chamber-stair ; 

I'm stepping toward the hall 

To give the boy a call ; 
And then bethink me that — he is not there ! 

I tread the crowded street ; 

A satcheled lad I meet, 
With the same beaming eyes and colored hair ; 

And as he's running by, 

Follow him with my eye. 
Scarcely believing that — ^he is not there ! 

I know his face is hid 
Under the cofiin-lid : 
Closed are his eyes, cold is his forehead fair ; 
My hand that marble felt ; 
O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! 



62 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 

I can not make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed. 
So long watched over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek it inquiringly, 
Before the thought comes that — he is not there ; 

When at the cool, gray break 

Of day, from sleep I wake. 
With my first breathing of the morning air, 

My soul goes up with joy. 

To Him who gave my boy, 
Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there ! 

When at the day's calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 
I'm with his mother offering up our prayer, 

Or evening anthems tuning. 

In spirit I'm communing 
With our boy's spirit, though — ^lie is not there ! 

Not there ! — Where, then, is he ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear ! 

The grave, that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress. 
Is but his wardrobe locked : he not there ! 

He lives ! — In all the past 

He lives ; nor, to the last, 
Of seeing him again will I despair. 

In dreams I see him now. 

And, on his angel-brow, ^ 

I sec it v/ritten : -'Thou shalt see me there !" 



HERS WAS A MOTHER'S HEART. 53 

Yes, we all live to God ! 

Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 

That in the spirit-land, 

Meeting at thy right hand, 
'Twill be our heaven to find that — Thou art there ! 

PlERPONT. 



PTers was a mother's heart, 

That poor Egyptian's, when she drew apart 

Because she would not see 

Her child beloved in its last agony ; 

When her sad load she laid, 
In her despair, beneath the scanty shade 
In the wild waste, and stepped 
Aside, and long and passionately wept. 

Yet higher, more sublime. 

How many a mother since that ancient time, 

Has shown the mighty power 

Of love divine, in such another hour ! 

Oh ! higher love to wait 

Fast by the sufferer in his worst estate. 

Nor from the eyes to hide 

One pang, but aye in courage to abide. 



54 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDEEN. 

And though no angel bring 

In that dark hour unto a livmg spring 

Of gladness — as was sent, 

Stilling her voice of turbulent lament — 

Oh ! higher faith to show 

Out of what depths of anguish and of woe 

The heart is strong to raise 

To an all-loving Father hymns of praise. 

Trench. 



Snnlieam sntr a 5^5nlrob)» 



I HEAR a shout of merriment, 

A laughing boy I see ; 
Two little feet the carpet press, 

And bring the child to me. 

Two little arms are round my neck, 

Two feet upon my knee : 
How fall the kisses on mv cheek ; 

t/ 7 

How sweet they are to me ! 

II. 

That merry shout no more I hear, 

No laughing child I see ; 
No little arms are round my neck, 

Nor feet upon my knee ! 



THE CHILD OF JAMES MELVILLE. 55 

No kisses drop upon my cheek ; 

Those lips are sealed to me. 
Dear Lord, how could I give him up 

To any but to Thee ! 



BoEN, July 9, 1586. Died about Jaxuary, 1588. 

This page, if thou be a pater [parent, father] that reads it, thou wilt 
apardone me ; if nocht, suspend thy censure tiU thou he a father, as said 
the grave Lacedsemonian, Agesilaus. — Autobiography of James Melville. 

One time my soul was pierced as with a sword, 
Contending still with men untaught and wild, 

When He who to the prophet lent his gourd. 
Gave me the solace of a pleasant child. 

A summer gift my precious flower was given ; 

A very summer fragrance was its life ; 
Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven 

When home I turned, a weary man of strife. 

With unformed laughter, musically sweet. 

How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss ; 

With outstretched arms its care-wrought father greet : 
Oh ! in the desert what a spring was this ! 

A few short months it blossomed near my heart ; 

A few short months — else toilsome all and sad ; 
But that home solace nerved me for my part, 

And of the babe I was exceeding glad ! 



56 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDEEN". 

Alas ! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying — 
(The prophet's gourd, it withered in a night !) 

And He who gave me all, my heart's pulse trying, 
Took gently home the child of my delight. 

Not rudely culled — not suddenly it perished, 
But gradual faded from our love away ! 

As if still, secret dews, its life that cherished. 
Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day ! 

My blessed Master saved me from repining, 

So tenderly he sued me for his own ; 
So beautiful he made my babe's declining. 

Its dying blessed me as its birth had done ! 

And daily to my board at noon and even 
Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, 

That we might commune of our rest in heaven, 
Gazing the while on death without its sting. 

And of the ransom for that baby paid, 

So very sweet at times our converse seemed. 

That the sure truth of grief a gladness made — 
Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeemed ! 

There were two milk-white doves my wife had nour- 
ished ; 

And I too loved, erewhile, at times to stand. 
Marking how each the other fondly cherished. 

And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand ! 

So tame they grew, that, to his cradle flying, 
Full oft they cooed him to his noon-tide rest ; 

And to the murmurs of his sleep replying, 
Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast. 



THE CHILD OF JAMES MELVILLE. 57 

'Twas a fair sight — the snow-pale mfant sleeping, 
So fondly guardianed by those creatures mild ; 

Watch o'er his closed eyes their bright eyes keeping : 
Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and child ! 

Still, as he sickened, seemed the doves too dwining. 
Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty play ; 

And on the day he died, with sad note pining. 
One gentle bird would not be frayed away. 

His mother found it, when she rose sad-hearted, 
At early dawn, with sense of nearing ill ; 

And when, at last, the little spirit parted. 
The dove died too, as if of its heart's chill ! 

The other flew to meet my sad home-riding, 

As with a human sorrow in its coo — 
To my dead child and its dead mate then guiding, 

Most pitifully plained, and parted too ! 

'Twas my first " hansel'"^ and " propine"f to Heaven : 
And as I laid my darling 'neath the sod — 

Precious His comforts — once an infant given. 
And offered with two turtle-doves to God ! 

Mrs. a. Stuart ^Ienteath. 

* Present. f Earnest, pledge. 



58 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 



SCge l^ission of tjje ^ufiel of Slieatii* 

" Go forth," said the Heavenly Father, 

To one of his seraph-train ; 
" Go forth on an errand of mercy 

To the world of trouble and pain ; 

" And away from earth's noxious vapors 
Some buds of beauty bring, 
To blo6m in the heavenly gardens, 

'Neath the smiles of perpetual spring." 

And the angel, with wings resplendent, 
Went out from the heavenly band, 

'Midst a chorus of joyful voices, 
Eesounding at God's right hand. 

Slowly night's gathering shadows 

Closed round a mother mild. 
Who tearful, and heavy-hearted. 

Watched by her dying child. 

Fevered, and restless, and moaning, 

On his little bed he lay. 
When the bright-winged angel drew near him, 

And kissed his last breath away. 

So softly the chain was severed 
So gently was staid the breath — 

It soothed the heart of the mourner 
And she blessed the angel of death. 



LTTTLE BESSIE. 59 

For she knew that the soul of her darling 

Had gone to his Saviour above — 
Clasped in the arms more tender 

Then even her fondest love, 

Jekett. 



settle 23csj5ie: 

A^^) THE WAY IN WHICH SHE FELL ASLEEP. 

Hug me closer, closer, mother. 

Put your arms around me tight ; 
1 am cold and tired, mother, 

And I feel so strange to-night ! 
Something hurts me here, dear mother, 

Like a stone upon my breast ; 
Oh ! I wonder, wonder, mother, 

Why it is I can not rest ! 

All the day, while you were working, 

As I lay upon my bed, 
I was trying to be patient, 

And to think of what you said ; 
How the kind and blessed Jesus 

Loves his lambs to watch and keep ; 
And I wished he'd come and take me 

In his arms, that I might sleep. 

Just before the lamp was lighted, 
Just before the children came, 

While the room was very quiet, 
I heard some one call my name. 



60 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDEEN. 

All at once the window opened ; 

In a field were lambs and sheep ; 
Some from out a brook were drinking, 

Some were lying fast asleep. 

But I could not see the Saviour, 

Though I strained my eyes to see ; 
And I wondered, if he saw me, 

Would he speak to su^h as me. 
In a moment I was looking 

On a world so bright and fair. 
Which was full of little children. 

And they seemed so happy there ! 

They were singing, oh ! how sweetly ! 

Sweeter songs I never heard ; 
They were singing sweeter, mother, 

Than the sweetest singing-bird. 
And while I my breath was holding, 

One, so bright, upon me smiled ; 
And I knew it must be Jesus, 

When he said, " Come here, my child. 

'' Come up here, my little Bessie, 

Come up here and live with me. 
Where the children never suffer, 

But are happier than you see !" 
Then I thought of all you'd told me 

Of that bright and happy land : 
I was going when you called me, 

When you came and kissed my hand. 



THE LITTLE SLEEPEK. 61 

And at first I felt so sorry 

You had called me : I would go. 
Oh ! to sleep and never suffer ! 

Mother, don't be crying so ! 
Hug me closer, closer, mother, 

Put your arms around me tight ; 
Oh ! how much I love you, mother, 

But I feel so strange to-night ! 

And the mother pressed her closer 

To her overburdened breast ; 
On the heart so near to breaking 

Lay the heart so near its rest. 
At the solemn hour of midnight, 

In the darkness calm and deep. 
Lying on her mother's bosom. 

Little Bessie fell asleep. 



Ef)t Hittlt Bilttptx. 

No mother's eye beside thee wakes to-night, 
No taper burns beside thy lonely bed, 

Darkling thou liest, hidden out of sight, 
And none are near thee but the silent dead. 

How cheerly glows this hearth, yet glows in vain, 
For we uncheered beside it sit alone. 

And listen to the wild and beating rain 

In angry gusts against our casement blown. 



62 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDBEN. 

And though we nothing speak, yet well I know 

That both our hearts are there, where thou dost keep 

Within thy narrow chamber far below, 

For the first time unwatched, thy lonely sleep. 

Oh ! no, not thou ! — and we our faith deny, 

This thought allowing : thou, removed from harms, 

In Abraham's bosom dost securely lie. 

Oh ! not in Abraham's, in a Saviour's arms — 

In that dear Lord's, who in thy worst distress. 
Thy bitterest anguish, gave thee, dearest child. 

Still to abide in perfect gentleness, 

And like an angel to be meek and mild. 

Sweet corn of wheat, committed to the ground 
To die, and live, and bear more precious ear, 

While in the heart of earth thy Saviour found 
His place of rest, for thee we will not fear. 

Sleep softly, till that blessed rain and dew, 

Down lighting upon earth, such change shall bring 

That all its fields of death shall laugh anew — 
Yea, with a living harvest laugh and sing. 

Trench. 



LITTLE LUCY. 63 

ILittU 3Lxxcp, 

AXl) THE SOXa SHE SUNa. 



A LITTLE child, six summers old. 

So thoughtful and so fair, 
There seemed about her pleasant ways 

A more than childish air, 
Was sitting on a summer eve 

Beneath a spreading tree, 
* Intent upon an ancient book, 

Which lay upon her knee. 

She turned each page with careful hand, 

And strained her sight to see. 
Until the drowsy shadows slept 

Upon the grassy lea ; 
Then closed the book, and upwards looked, 

And straight began to sing 
A simplp verse of hopeful love — 

This very childish thing : 
" While here below, how sweet to know 

His wondrous love and story, 
And then, though grace, to see His face. 

And live with him in glory !" 

t II. 

That little child, one dreary night 

Of winter-wind and storm, 
Was tossing on a weary couch 

Her weak and wasted form ; 



64 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREISr. 

And in her pain, and in its pause, 
But clasped her hands in prayer — 

(Strange that we had no thoughts of heaven 
While hers \yere only there) — 



Until she said : " O mother dear, 

How sad you seem to be ! 
Have you forgotten that He said, 

' Let children come to me' ? 
Dear mother, bring the blessed Book, 

Come, mother, let us sing." 
And then again, with faltering tongue, 

She sung that childish thing : * 

" While here below, how sweet to know 

His wondrous love and story. 
And then, through grace, to see His face, 

And live with him in glory !" 

III. 

Underneath a spreading tree 

A narrow mound is seen. 
Which first was covered by the snow, 

Then blossomed into green ; 
Here first I heard that childish voice 

That sings on earth no more ; 
In heaven it hath a richer tone, 

And sweeter than before : 
For those who know His love below — 

So runs the wondrous story — 
In heaven, through grace, shall see his foce 

And dwell with him in glory ! 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 65 



When on my ear your loss was knelled. 

And tender sympathy upburst, 
A little rill from memory swelled. 

Which once had soothed my bitter thirst. 

And I was fain to bear to you 

Some portion of its mild relief, 
That it might be as healing dew, 

To steal some fever from your grief. 

After our child's untroubled breath 

Up to the Father took its way, 
And on our home the shade of death. 

Like a long twilight, haunting lay ; 

And friends came round with us to weep 

Her little spirit's swift remove. 
This story of the Alpine sheep 

Was told to us by one we love : 

" They in the valley's sheltering care 

Soon crop the meadow's tender prime. 
And when the sod grows brown and bare, 
The Shepherd strives to make them climb 

" To airy shelves of pasture green, 

That hang along the mountain's side, 
Where grass and flowers together lean. 

And down through mists the sunbeams slide. 



66 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDEEN. 

" But naught can tempt the timid things 
The steep and rugged path to try, 
Though sweet the Shepherd calls and sings, 
And seared below the pastures lie, 

*' Till in his arms the lambs he takes. 
Along the dizzy verge to go ; 
Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, 
They follow on o'er rock and snow, 

" And in those pastures lifted fair, 

More dewy soft than lowland mead, 
The Shepherd drops his tender care, 
And sheep and lambs together feed." 

This parable, by Nature breathed. 
Blew on me as the south wind free 

O'er frozen brooks, that float, unsheathed 
From icy thraldom, to the sea. 

A blissful vision through the night 
"Would all my happy senses sway. 

Of the Good Shepherd on the height, 
Or climbing up the stony way. 

Holding our little lamb asleep ; 

And like the burden of the sea 
Sounded that voice along the deep. 

Saying, ''• Arise and follow^ me." 



Maria Lowell. 



THE LITTLE BOY THAT DIED. 67 



I AM all alone in my chamber now, 

And the midnight hour is near ; 
And the faggot's crack and the clock's dull tick 

Are the only sounds I hear ; 
And over my soul in its solitude, 

Sweet feelings of sadness glide, 
For my heart and my eyes are full when I think 

Of the little boy that died. 

I went one night to my father's house, 

Went home to the dear ones all. 
And softly I opened the garden-gate, 

And softly the door of the hall. 
My mother came out to meet her son — 

She kissed me, and then she sighed. 
And her head fell on my neck, and she wept 

For the little boy that died. 

I shall miss him when the flowers come. 

In the garden where he played ; 
I shall miss him more by the fire-side, 

"When the flowers have all decayed. 
I shall see his toys and his empty chair, 

And the horse he used to ride ; 
And they will speak with a silent speech, 

Of the little bov that died. 



t)b DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 

We shall go home to our Father's house — 

To our Father's house in the skies, 
Where the hope of our souls shall have no blight, 

Our love no broken ties. 
We shall roam on the banks of the river of peace, 

And bathe in its blissful tide ; 
And one of the joys of our heaven shall be 

The little boy that died. 



" O MOURNER ! who, with tender love. 
Hast wept beside some infant grave, 
Hast thou not sought a Friend above, 
Who died thy little one to save ? 

"Then lift thy weary weeping eye 

Above the waves that round thee swell ; 
Is not thy darling safe on high ? 
Canst thou not whisper, It is well ] 

"Yes, it is well — though never more 
His infant form to earth be given ; 
He rests where sin and grief are o'er, 

And thou shalt meet thy child in heaven," 



LITTLE Willie's last words. 69 



3Litnt SS^ilU'c^js 5Last SS^ortis. 



TtiE Sabbath-day was nearly spent, 

The week that Willie died, 
And o'er his pillow still we bent. 

Or kneeling at his side 
We watched the waves that came and went 

In life's fast-ebbing tide. 

Through all the silent hours — the deep. 

Deep silence of our woe — 
We watched, with eyes that could not weep, 

The parting spirit go ; 
We heard the moanings of his sleep, 

His breathing faint and slow. 

But ere his upward flight he took, 

The fevered slumber broke ; 
His mind the troubled dream forsook ; 

Our dying Willie woke ; 
And with an earnest heavenward look, 

These precious words he spoke : 

"The blessed Jesus surely died 

To save us from our sin." 
He said no more, nor turned aside 

His gaze, that pierced within 
Those gates of glory opened wide. 

Where soon he entered in. 

^' •>'.• ^ ^-r ^ 



70 DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDKEJST. 

I thank thee, Father ! Lord of light, 
That, hidden from the wise, 

Thou hast revealed to infant sight 
The secrets of the skies. 

Yea, Father ! even so, for right 
It seemeth in thine eyes. 

I thank and praise, Saviour Christ ! 

Thy mercy rich and free, 
That six short cloudless years sufficed 

To bring our child to thee ; 
Thus early to thine arms enticed, 

Suffered thy face to see. 

And when the holy and the just, 
Who taketh what he gave, 

Shall call me to that sacred dust 
Eeposing in the grave, 

Be mine as sure and simple trust 
That Jesus died to save. 



C. W. B. 



©n Ef^t 2ieatj) of u (tf^iltx^ 

Wherefore should I make my moan, 
Now the darling child is dead ? 

He to rest is early gone. 
He to paradise is fled ! 

I shall go to him, but he 

Never shall return to me. 



ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 71 

God forbids his longer stav, 

God recalls the precious loan ! 
He hath taken him away, 

From my bosom to his own. 
Surely what he wills is best ; 
Happy in his will I rest. 

Faith cries out, " It is the Lord ! 

Let him do what seems him good : 
Be thy holy name adored, 

Take the gift a while bestowed ; 
Take the child, no longer mine ; 
Thine he is, for ever thine !" 

Charles Wesley. 



Utt US p X tc ^ 



Lord, what a change \yithin us one short hour 
Spent in thy presence will prevail to make, 
What heavy burdens from our bosoms take, 
What parched grounds refresh, as with a shower ! 
We kneel, and all around us seems to lower ; 
We rise, and all, the distant and the near, 
Stands forth in sunny outhne, brave and clear : 
We kneel, how weak ! — we rise, how full of power ! 
Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong, 
Or others, that we are not always strong, 
That we are ever overborne with care, 
That we should ever weak or heartless be, 
Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer. 
And joy and strength and courage are with Thee ? 



®l)t Wmti] of a iDife. 



BT 



WILLIAM B. SPRAGUE, D.D. 



Wovtis ot Sctijtwre 



I AM the man that bath seen affliction by the rod of his wrath. He bath led me, 

and brought me into darkness, but not into light. Surely against me is he turned, he 
turneth his hand against me all the day.— Lamentations 1 : 2, 8. 

He hath bent his bow, and set me as a mark for the arrow. He hath caused the 
arrows of his quiver to enter into my reins.— Lamentations 3 : 12, 13. 

He hath filled me with bitterness, he hath made me drunken with woimwood. — 
Lamentations 3 : 15. 

Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by ? behold and see if there be any sorrow like 
unto my sorrow, which is done unto me, wherewith the Lord hath afflicted me in the 



And I said, my strength and my hope is perished from the Lord ; remembering 
mine affliction and my misery, the wormwood and the gall. My soul hath them still 
in remembrance, and is humbled in me. It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not 
consumed, because his compassions fail not. — Lamentations 3 : 18-22. 

It is good that a man should both hope, and quietly wait for the salvation of the 
Lord. It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth. He sitteth alone and 
keepeth silence, because he hath borne it upon him. He putteth his mouth in the 
dust, if so be there may be hope. He giveth his cheek to him that sraiteth him, he is 
filled full with reproach. For the Lord will not cast off for ever. But though he 
cause grief, yet will he have compassion, according to the multitude of his mercies; for 
he doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men.— Lamentations 3 : 26-83. 



t g^atlj 0f a Mife. 



It is the ordinance of God tliat fallen human- 
ity and affliction shonld be bound together by 
an indissoluble tie. No one livetli, no one ever 
lived, an entire stranger to pain and suffering. 
Tliis common feature in our earthly lot results 
from the operation of a universal cause — all suf- 
fer, because all inherit a sinful nature. There is 
doubtless, a great difference in the sufferings of 
different individuals ; but probably it has respect 
more to the kind, than the degree, of suffering ; 
and if we leave out of view those calamities 
which men immediately bring upon themselves 
by their follies and vices, and limit ourselves to 
those which result necessarily from the nature 
we bear, and the relations we sustain, I imagine 
we shall find that the amount of suffering allotted 



76 THE DEATH OF A Wli^E. 

to different individuals, is dealt out in much 
greater equality than we are accustomed to sup- 
pose. 

Of all the forms that affliction takes on, none 
is more common than bereavement. The reason 
of this is, that death is always abroad, doing his 
work; and as we are united to each other in 
endearing relations, he rarely strikes a blow that 
does not break cherished ties, and blast fond 
hopes, and perhaps leave some habitation deso- 
late. While bereavement, in any form, is to be 
regarded as an affliction, the character of the 
affliction is modified by the nature of the relation 
which is sundered ; and though it may be diffi- 
cult to decide, in many cases, what form of be- 
reavement will make the heart bleed most freely, 
yet those who have had an ample and varied 
experience on the subject will render a united 
testitnony to the fact, that the dissolution of one 
tie produces a very different effect upon the 
heart of the mourner, from the dissolution of 
another. It must be acknowledged that there 
are a few families that seem remarkably exempt 
from bereavement, but it is sure to come at last ; 
and when Death begins with such a household, 
he is likely to number several victims in quick 
succession. The very fact that they have been 



TfiE DEATH OF A WIFE. 77 

spared long together, is evidence that their 
deaths will not be far apart. 

But a little while since, I was a visitor in a 
dwelling in which there seemed to be as much 
of domestic enjoyment, as it has ever been my 
privilege to witness. The heads of the family 
were models of conjugal and parental affection 
and dignity. The children were beautiful exam- 
ples of filial obedience and love. The brothers 
and sisters exhibited towards each other a loving 
but delicate familiarity. Even the servants 
showed by their deferential and confiding man- 
ner, that they felt the influence of the kindly 
and healthful atmosphere that surrounded them. 
There was cheerfulness without frivolity, there 
was seriousness without austerity, there was de- 
votion without enthusiasm, there was a genial, 
generous freedom, vdthout the semblance of any 
thing to dishonor any one of the domestic rela- 
tions. My visit in that family was delightful. 
After I came away, it was often in my mind, as 
a beautiful image of that great family of which 
Christ himself is the Head. 

I knew, indeed, that every one of its members 
was mortal ; and yet I half yielded to the delu- 
sion, that so much grace and loveliness, and ten- 
derness and dignity as I had seen there, would 



78 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

be almost enougli to keep tlie monster away 
Had I been obliged to answer the question, 
whicli of all tlie loved and loving ones it would 
be the hardest to spare from that dwelling, I 
should probably have felt constrained to say, 
" the female head." But there was not one 
among them all that promised better for life than 
she. Half a century had not withered the roses 
upon her cheeks. She moved about with as 
graceful and elastic a step as the youngest of her 
daughters. Her spirits were buoyant, her face 
was like bright sunshine, and not one wrinkle 
had come to announce that the evening of her 
day was drawing nigh. But not many months 
had elapsed from the time of my ^dsit, before I 
heard that disease was in that dwelling, and the 
wife and mother was the subject ; and that was 
quickly succeeded by the intelligence that death 
had followed in its footsteps, and that the wife 
and mother was the victim. In what I shall 
now write upon the dissolution of the conjugal 
relation, I shall keep this affecting instance of 
bereavement in my eye ; though I shall endeavor 
to give my remarks, so far as I can, a general 
application. 

Let me dwell a little on 

The geief which the death or a wiee 

OCCASIONS : 



THE GEIEF IT OCCASIONS. 79 

The cois-soLATio]^ which it demands : 
The duties which it ijStculcates : 
I know, indeed, tliat the conjugal relation is 
not always a cliannel of blessing — on tlie con- 
trary, it is sometimes perverted to purposes of 
unmixed evil ; and its dissolution, liowever, in 
some of its aspects, it may fill tlie survivor's heart 
with agony, can not but be regarded as bringing 
a release from an intolerable burden. But it is 
not with such cases that I have to do at present. 
I refer to those only in which the dignity of the 
conjugal relation is, in some good degree, main- 
tained, and its legitimate ends secured ; and in 
respect to such, I may say, without the fear of 
contradiction, that the disruption of this tender 
tie is always the occasion of deep sorrow. 

The relation which exists between the hus- 
band and wife is, in the order of both time and 
nature, anterior to any other of the domestic 
relations. And not only has it received the 
most impressive sanction of Divine authority, but 
the Bible has clearly given it the precedence of 
even that which exists between parents and 
children ; for Jesus himself hath said that '^ a 
man shall leave his father and mother and cleaA^e 
to his wife ; and they twain shall be one flesh." 
Is it possible then, that so sacred a relation can 



80 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

be sundered, without stirring tlie innermost sen- 
sibilities of tbe heart ? Can a man be parted 
from his own flesh, and not feel the dividing 
stroke ? 

Then again, who that has not had the expe- 
rience, can form any adequate conception of the 
tenderness of the conjugal tie ; of the bright 
hopes, the grateful associations, the endearing 
sympathies, that pertain to it ? The husband 
has found in his wife a safe depository of his 
plans, his cares, his anxieties, his hopes, his griefs, 
and his joys. He has confided to her what he 
would venture to whisper in no other ear. He 
has often welcomed her affectionate counsels, and 
found in them both light and strength. In his 
hours of sickness and weariness, she has watched 
around him and administered to him, like some 
heaven-commissioned angel. To her willing and 
efficient cooperation, he owes much of the success 
which has crowned his efforts in the station in 
which Providence has placed him. When his 
engagements have called him from home, the 
thought of her affectionate interest in aU that 
pertains to him, cheers him in his absence and 
hastens his return. In short, he associates her 
with every thing that touches his sensibilities, 
awakens his hopes, or employs his efforts. And 



THE GRIEF IT OCCASIONS. 81 

can it be tliat lie can see this " lover and friend 
put far from" liim into tlie ''darkness" of tlie 
grave, without feeling a pang in Ms inmost soul ? 
Can Ms most cherislied associations thus be brok- 
en, and the very current of his life disturbed, 
without his being bowed under the burden of 
sorrow ? 

This departed wife has probably been a mo- 
ther — she exercised the utmost vigilance and 
care in the education of her children so long as 
she was spared to them ; but who shall perform 
those delicate and difficult and tender offices 
towards them, now that she is gone ? The be- 
reaved husband feels that his parental charge 
has suddenly been doubled. As he sees them 
going away to weep alone, because they are 
motherless, or lingering about the coffin with 
bursting hearts, because they can not stay away 
from it, his heart sinks within him, under a 
consciousness of his inability to carry out their 
mother's wishes in training them up to virtue 
and usefulness. Thus the affection which he 
bears for his children heightens his grief that 
they are left without a mother. 

I have no occasion to draw upon imagination 
to represent the deep sorrow of a bereaved 
husband ; for I can not throw my thoughts back 
4^ 



82 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

into tlie past, but sncli cases multiply upon me, 
almost without a limit. I liaye in my mind one 
whicli, perhaps, witnesses to the truth of what I 
am saying, as well as any other I can think of. 
I was called to visit a family in which it was 
understood that the wife. and mother was just 
falling into the monster's hands. The husband 
met me at the door, and said, with a bewildered 
and half-maniac look : " My wife is dead, sir ; 
come and see for yourself; she is dead." I 
besought him to compose himself ; but I quickly 
saw that I had to do with a mind that was 
unstrung. I attempted to speak of the consola- 
tion that there is in Christ ; but the ability to 
comprehend and apply was gone. Though I 
doubt not that he was a true Christian, yet such 
was his nervous sensibility, and such the strength 
of his conjugal attachment, that the affliction, 
coming suddenly as it did, was an overmatch for 
aU the power of endurance he could command. 
He gradually recovered from the shock ; but it 
was long, long before the deep lines of sorrow 
began to wear out from his countenance. His 
departed wife — ^he talked of her by day ; he 
dreamed of her by night ; he cherished every 
thing that was associated with her memory ; he 
took lonely walks where they had been accus- 



THE CONSOLATION IT DEMANDS. 83 

tomed to walk together ; and nowhere did lie 
feel more at home than beside her grave. That 
afflicted husband's experience was, by no means, 
singular — ^if it was, in some respects, extreme, it 
may fairly represent the anguish that pertains to 
this kind of bereavement. 
Let me then next speak of 



The severity of an affliction is always the 
measure of consolation that is needed to sustain 
us under it. When the affliction is compara- 
tively light, we feel less sensibly the need of 
sustaining and comforting grace ; but when it 
comes upon us with a crushing weight, and 
makes the future seem so dark that we shudder 
to contemplate it, we must have ''strong consola- 
tion" to keep us from sinking under it. Surely 
then, such an affliction as that we are now con- 
sidering, in order to be endured patiently, peace- 
fully, profitably, must be greatly qualified and 
softened by those blessed consolations which 
have their source in the heart of Infinite Love. 

Let me say here, to prevent misapprehension, 
that it is none but a Ohristian husband to whom 
the Gospel offers its peculiar consolations in the 



84 THE DEATH OF A WIFE, 

hour of bereavement ; for, inasmncli as tLey sup- 
pose tlie existence of a trusting and sanctified 
spirit, it were impossible tliat any other tban a 
true Christian should appropriate them. An 
ungodly husband, when God's afflicting hand is 
thus laid upon him, is indeed called to reflection 
and repentance, and faith in the Redeemer, that 
he may be prepared to receive the proffered 
consolation of the Gospel ; but until the renovat- 
ing process has passed upon him, there is no 
source of substantial comfort open to him in the 
universe : and though the lenient hand of time 
may gradually soothe his sorrows, he passes 
through the affliction a stranger to the sustaining 
power of God's truth and spirit. When I speak 
then of the consolation which the mourning hus- 
band needs to keep him from sinking in the deep 
waters, I would have it distinctly understood that 
not even Christianity herself can supply it to one 
who has not previously yielded to her enlighten- 
ing and sanctifying influence. 

The bereaved husband mourns, because the 
desire of his eyes is removed from him ; because 
not so much another, but a part of himself, has 
been turned into a clod and laid away in the 
grave. The joys of the past, to which his wife 
has so liberallv contributed : the burdens of the 



THE COIS'SOLATION IT DEMANDS. 85 

past wMcli lier kindly sympatliy lias helped to 
alleviate; tlie sweet hopes and anticipations of 
the past in which they have been mutual sharers — - 
all these come rushing in a tide of deep sorrow 
upon the memory and the heart ; and the stricken 
mourner feels that earth can supply no anti- 
dote to his grief. The troubled spirit asks, first 
of all, " Whither has she fled, and is there any 
hope of a meeting hereafter ?" And though Rea- 
son and Philosophy are dumb to such inquiries, 
Christianity answers them with a divine authori- 
ty — ^she assures that bereaved husband that the 
loved one whom he mourns has passed the veil 
only to mingle in bright realities ; that where 
she is, there is no sin nor death, but perfect purity 
and everlasting life ; that the grave is only a 
quiet resting-place for her body on its way to 
heaven ; and that, in the course of a few years at 
longest, he may hope to be joined with her in a 
blessed fellowship that Death can never invade. 
Are not these precious truths, which are written 
in the Bible as with a sun-beam, just what he 
needs to endure his great trial with composure 
and dignity ? Is it not enough for him to know 
that she who is dead still lives, and that that 
coimtenance upon which he is looking for the 
last time on earth shall hereafter be animated 



86 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

with celestial briglitness, and that they shall be 
united again, not indeed in the same relation 
which has jnst been dissolved, but in the purer, 
nobler fellowship of heaven ? 

Every case in which this affliction occurs is 
marked by its own peculiar circumstances ; and 
sometimes they are such as to add not a little 
to its bitterness. More than once have I heard 
the sorrowful survivor exclaim, referring to some 
peculiarity of his own case : '-''That it is that occa- 
sions the sharpest pang — ^had it not been for that 
one circumstance, I could have borne it with com- 
parative composure." But here comes in the 
very truth which that agonized heart needs more 
to feel : that a God of infinite wisdom and good- 
ness, a Father who afflicts not willingly, but for 
his children's benefit, has ordained every circum- 
stance attending the event as truly as the event 
itself ; and that not one bitter ingredient has been 
infused into the cup w^hich could have been dis- 
pensed with, in consistency with the best interests 
of him to whom it has been administered. Is it 
not enough for thee to know that it is a Father's 
hand that is thus causing thine heart to bleed ; 
that it is because he loves thee that he thus chas- 
tens thee ; and that he has put his all-sustaining 
grace, which can render any burden light, at thy 
command ? 



THE CONSOLATION IT DEMANDS. 87 

There is, perhaps, no circumstance tliat serves 
more to aggravate such an affliction than the fact 
of there being a family of young children left 
without a mother. Hitherto, the father, when 
he has looked round upon these objects of his af- 
fection, has felt that the responsible and delight- 
ful charge was shared with him by another ; by 
one too, who was, in some respects, far better 
quahfied than himself to give direction to an im- 
mortal mind, especially in the first unfolding of its 
faculties. And now that he feels that the arm 
of his own strength is half-palsied by her remov- 
al, though his parental duties have become propor- 
tionably more arduous, how much of comfort and 
resolution does he need to have imparted to him 
in view of this sad change ! Well, here again he 
is met with the assurance of all-sufficient Grace. 
Even in these most trying circumstances, he has 
a right to appropriate the Saviour's promise — 
" My grace shall be sufficient for thee ;" and with 
that grace operating in his heart, he will find 
himself fully adequate to his added duties. Trust 
in the Lord, thou bereaved husband, and thou 
mayest hope that those children will grow up as 
olive plants round about thee, and that they will 
live to comfort and bless thee while their mother 
sleeps in the grave. Remember that though she 



88 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

wlio bore tliem is dead, God, their heavenly 
Father, hves, and let not thine heart be troubled. 
It only remains to advert to 



Srje IBxxtit^ toSi^S «ticS an ^miction iiuulcates. 

It conveys to the bereaved husband a most 
impressive charge, to beware of idolatrous attach- 
ments, and to fix his affections more firmly upon 
the things that are above. The event which has 
occurred has blasted, it may be in the twinkhng 
of an eye, his fondest earthly hopes. She who 
was the keeper of his secrets, the light of his 
dwelling, the joy of his life, has had her coun- 
tenance changed, and been sent away ; and 
according to the measure of happiness that was 
procured for him by her life, is the bitterness 
of the cup iwhich is administered to him in her 
death. What a lesson this of the vanity of 
earthly hopes, of the utter uncertainty that hangs 
about the future, of the folly of ultimately trust- 
ing to any thing short of God's own all-suffi- 
ciency ! And what an impressive call to rise up 
to a higher sense of Christian obligation ; to en- 
deavor to attain a more spiritual mind, and thus 
secure to our Heavenly Father's discipline its 
legitimate effect ! Thou sorrow-stricken hus- 



THE DUTIES IT INCULCATES. 89 

ba.nd, that burden that rests upon tliy lieart, 
that desolation that reigns in thy dwelling, 
speaks to thee of the glorious world unseen ; and 
it bids thee, by devout contemplation and living 
faith, become more familiar with that world, to 
which thy heart is now bound by a new and 
most tender tie. Rely on it, thou wilt not have 
accomplished God's purpose in this affliction, if 
it does not brighten all thy graces, and gender 
thy Christian example both more attractive and 
more effective. 

Such a bereavement should also lead one to 
gird himself for meeting other afflictions, which 
may await him in the future. Be it so that, 
according to the common course of events, he 
may not expect another afflliction equally heart- 
rending ; yet if he lives long, affliction in some 
form or other certainly awaits him ; and be it 
what it may, he will need a previous discipline 
of his spirit, in order that he may be prepared 
for it. To this preparatory discipline, the bitter 
scene through which he is now passing, calls him. 
Remember, O man ! whilst thou art looking on 
that loved face, over which death's withering 
hand has passed, or whilst thou art standing by 
that grave from which thy tender recollections 
will not let thee stay long away — remember that 



90 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

thou mayest live to see tliy cliildren or other 
beloved friends die : and tliat then, as now, thou 
wilt need to have thy heart braced against the 
fearful shock. Let thy present experience be the 
means of fortifying thee against the power of 
adversity, come in whatever form it may. Pos- 
sibly, thy future life may be so brief that all thy 
dear friends may live to see thee die, and then 
this bereavement will be the last in the history 
of thy pilgrimage ; but that which constitutes 
the appropriate preparation for suffering is no 
less the appropriate preparation for dying ; and 
thy business here in the furnace is to get ready 
for walking through the dark valley. Let thy 
present mourning, then, prepare thee not only 
for future mourning, but for that gloomy passage 
which thou hast yet to make out of this world 
of sorrow. 

Should not the effect of such a bereavement 
also be, to awaken and cherish a heart-felt sym- 
pathy with others who are smarting under the 
rod ? Yours is not the only heart that is capable 
of bleeding. You are not the only one whose 
dwelling is invaded by death. You live in a 
world which is, at present, under the dominion 
of the king of terrors ; a world in which groans 
and tears and graves attest that tender relations 



THE DUTIES IT INCULCATES. 91 

never last long. Yon are taking a lesson, in 
what yon now experience, of the valne of hnman 
sympathy, while yon are acquiring that deep, 
practical knowledge which will qnalify yon to 
be at once a counsellor and a comforter to others 
who are in sorrow. Hereafter, then, reckon it as 
a duty which God requires at your hands — and 
the more for his having taught you so well how 
to perform it — to weep with them that weep. 
Not only when the conjugal tie, but when any 
other endearing relationship is dissolved, or in- 
deed when any severe affliction — no matter of 
what sort — overtakes a fellow-mortal, turn your 
ear towards the grave of your wife, and you shall 
hear a voice charging you to do what you can to 
wipe away those flowing tears. 

Suppose there are motherless children remain- 
ing, what new and arduous duties does this cir- 
cumstance devolve upon the surviving parent! 
I have already spoken of this as serving, in one 
sense, to heighten his sorrow, while yet in another 
it may help to soothe it ; but certainly it imposes 
upon him a new obligation to conduct their educa- 
tion with the utmost vigilance and fidelity. You 
surely can not remember what their mother was 
to them once, without striving to make up for 
their loss, by your increased fidelity so far as 



92 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

you can. You can not tMnk of tlie voice tliat 
used to counsel them as huslied, of tlie hand that 
used to guide them as palsied, of the countenance 
that used to beam upon them in loving smiles as 
hid in the darkness of the sepulchre, without re- 
cognizing amidst all this a solemn charge, coming 
up, as it were, from the heart that has now ceased 
to beat, to do nothing to peril the interests of 
those children, to neglect nothing that will be 
likely to promote them. And I must not omit 
to say, that even your wounded sensibility may 
be perverted to their injury — the very fact that 
they are wdthout a mother may lead you to be 
too lenient towards their faults, and too indulg- 
ent to their wishes ; but against this you must 
guard with scrupulous care. You must bear in 
mind that you most effectually fall in with the 
design of Providence, as well as render the best 
tribute to the memory of your departed wife, 
when you adopt that course towards your child- 
ren which will best serve to develop their facul- 
ties, and form them to a virtuous character and 
a life of Christian usefulness. 

I will only add, that a husband upon whom 
the hand of God has thus fallen, should maintain 
the utmost personal circumspection. Let him 
remember that he is sacredly bound to improve 



THE DUTIES IT INCULCATES. 93 

the affliction for the benefit of others as well as 
of himself ; and that whether that end is accom- 
plished or not, must depend, in no small degree, 
on the spirit that breathes in his every-day 
deportment. I have known men, and good men, 
who have dishonored their character as hnsbands, 
I may say as Christians, by the lack of prudence 
and dignity in the circumstances which I am 
supposing. Through the influence of an excita- 
ble temperament, or perhaps of unfavorable asso- 
ciations, they have been led to do that for which 
they have been stigmatized as indiscreet, if not 
heartless, mourners. Let no such imputation 
even be whispered against you. "Wherever you 
are, forget not that the world look upon you as 
a bereaved husband. Let your example be 
marked by so much consideration, and prudence, 
and piety, that none shall have aught to say 
against it — that all shall be instructed and pro- 
fited by it. 

But I can not bring these remarks to a close, 
without being reminded that they have by no 
means a universal application. I have been sup- 
posing that both the husband who mourns, and 
the wife who is mourned for, are the disciples of 
Christ ; that the latter has gone to be for ever 
with the Lord, while the former remains to wit- 



94 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

ness to a good profession. Bnt need I say tliat 
there are cases innumerable of a sadly opposite 
character ? Art thou a Christian husband, mourn- 
ing for a wife who never felt the heavings of 
godly sorrow, or the joys of living faith ? I won- 
der not that thine heart is thrice broken, and 
that, go where thou wilt, that dying look brings 
anguish to thy soul ; but still the truth that God 
reigns and does all things well, remains to thee ; 
and it becomes thee to bow in reverent submis- 
sion, •and seek consolation here. Art thou an 
ungodly husband, bereaved of a Christian wife, 
who set before thee a bright example, and upon 
whose last breath a prayer for thy salvation died 
away ; and dost thou now think of her as living 
and shining among the angels ? But canst thou 
bear the thought of an eternal separation ? Canst 
thou take along with thee into future scenes of 
adversity, the reflection that thou hast practically 
determined that that last prayer should not be 
answered ? Wouldst thou rather that thy wife 
should come as a bright ministering angel around 
thy death-bed, or be summoned as a swift witness 
against thee in the judgment ? 



P ^ m * 



Life I Death I World I Time J 

Grave, where all things flow I 
'Tis youi^s to make our lot sublime, 

With your great weight of woe. 

n. i 

Though sharpest anguish hearts may wring. 

Though bosoms torn may be, 
Yet sufifering is a holy thing : 

Without it, what were we ? Trench. 



foms ott tl^t §mt]^ ol a Mitt 



If I had thought thou couldst have died, 

I might not weep for thee ; 
But I forgotj when by thy side, 

That thou couldst mortal be ; 
It never through my mind had passed 

That time would e'er be o'er, 
And I on thee should look my last, 

And thou shouldst smile no more. 

And still upon that face I look, 

And think 'twill smile again ; 
And still the thought I will not brook 

That I must look in vain ! 
But when I speak — thou dost not say. 

What thou ne'er left unsaid ; 
And now I feel as well I may. 

Dear Mary, thou art dead ! 
5 



98 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, 

All cold and all serene — 
I still might press thy silent heart, 

And where thy smiles have been. 
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have 

Thou seemest still my own ; 
But there, I lay thee in thy grave — 

And I am now alone ; 

I do not think, where'er thou art, 

Thou hast forgotten me : 
And I perhaps may soothe this heart 

In thinking too of thee ; 
Yet there was round thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before, 
As fancy never could have drawn, 

And never can restore ! 

WOLFB, 



^\np a^xxt J^i) ilobe. 



Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed 

Never to be disquieted ! 

My last good night ! thou wilt not wake 

Till I thy fate shall overtake : 

Till age, or grief, or sickness must 

Marry my body to that dust 

It so much loves ; and fill the room 

My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. 

Stay for me there ; I will not fail 

To meet thee in that hollow vale. 



SLEEP ON, MY LOVE. 99 

And think not much of my delay, 

I am already on the way, 

And follow thee with all the speed 

Desire can make, or sorrows breed. 

Each minute is a short degree. 

And every hour a step towards thee. 

At night when I betake to rest. 

Next morn I rise nearer my west 

Of life, almost by eight hours' sail. 

Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale. 

Thus from the sun my bottom steers 

And my day's compass downward bears : 

Nor labor I to stem the tide 

Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield. 

Thou like the van first tooks't the field, 

And gotten first the victory 

In thus adventuring to die 

Before me, whose more years might crave 

A just precedence in the grave. 

But hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum. 

Beats my approach, tells thee I come ; 

And slow howe'er my marches be, 

I shall at last sit down with thee. 

The thought of this bids me go on, 

And wait my dissolution 

With hope and comfort : Dear, (forgive 

The crime,) I am content to live 

Divided with but half a heart. 

Till we shall meet and never part. 

Henry King, (1699.) 



100 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 



Lie down in peace to take thy rest ! 

Dear cherished form ! no longer mine, 
But bearing in thy clay-cold breast 

A hidden germ of life divine, 
Which, when the eternal spring shall bloom, 
Will burst the shackles of the tomb. 



Lie down in peace to take thy rest ! 

Unbroken will thy slumbers be, 
Satan can now no more molest. 

And Death has done its worst for thee. 
Lie down thy hallowed sleep to take 
Till clothed with glory thou shalt wake. 

Lie down in peace to take thy rest ! 

We can no longer watch thy bed. 
But glorious angels, spirits blest. 

Shall guard thee day and night instead ; 
And when thine eyes unclosed shall be, 
Christ in his glory they shall see. 

Lie down in peace to take thy rest ! 

My eyes must weep — ^my heart must mourn ; 
But to thy soul, with Jesus blest, 

For comfort and for hope I turn : 
Thou wilt not mark these tears that flow ; 
Sorrow can never reach thee now. 



THE DYING WIFE TO HEK HUSBAND. 101 

Lie down in peace to take thy rest ! 

Let me betake myself to prayer. 
Bending Faith's corselet on my breast, 

Lest Satan find an entrance there : 

God gave ; — though now his gift he claim, 

Still blessed be his holy name ! 

Barton. 



2rj)e JB^ittQ miU to J^^t J^usbanlr. 

They tell me life is waning fast. 

And Death's dark wing unfurled, 
Will bear my spirit soon from earth, 

Unto an unknown world ; 
I feel, beloved, it must be so — 

I feel that even now 
His hand is on my fluttering heart, 

His shadow o'er my brow. 

How shall I leave thee ? — ^how resign 

Thy tenderness and care ? 
The pressure of thy clasping hand. 

Thy blessing and thy prayer ! 
Together we have tasted joy, 

Together wept in ill. 
And the love that was so bright in bliss, 

In grief was brighter still. 



102 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

Wilt thou not miss me from thy side, 

"When twilight's hour hath come '? 
Will it not seem a desert place. 

The paradise of home ? 
Then, gather close with brooding love 

Our children round thy knee, 
And wipe with tenderest hand the tears 

Which they will shed for me. 

And soothe each little throbbing heart 

That asks for me in vain, 
And say, that in the far-off heaven 

Their mother lives again ; 
Link not my name with thought of death, 

But point them to the sky, 
And tell them in the " Better Land" 

They neither weep nor die. 

Go with them to their lonely couch 

At evening's silent close. 
And softly press each pillowed cheek, 

And hush them to repose : 
Or bid them kneel with clasped hands 

To lisp their evening prayer : 
Thou must unite a father's love, 

With all a mother's care, 

A mother's care ! a mother's love ! 

And must they never know 
How deeply in her " heart of hearts" 

A mother's love may glow 1 



THE DYING WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. 103 

Will they yet bloom in girlhood fair, 

While she who gave them birth 
Lies all forgotten far away, 

In one lone spot of earth ? 

Forgotten ! no, beloved one, no ! 

Thou wilt remember still 
The being who hath shared thy lot, 

Alike in good or ill; 
Thou wilt remember all her love. 

With faithful, fond regret ; 
And but the faults she could not hide, 

Thy heart will e'er forget. 

And thou wilt come to that lone spot 

Where the green willow waves, 
And lead our children's tiny feet 

Among the quiet graves ; 
And read for them the sculptured stone — 

Brief record of my life — 
Then say how faithfully I loved. 

As mother and as wife. 

How can I say farewell to thee ? 

How mark thy bitter tears 1 
Look up, beloved, we only part 

Tor a few fleeting years ; 
They will roll o'er thy darkened path 

Swiftly as shadows flee. 
And in a world of holier love 

Will our blest meeting be. 



104 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 



€f^t Comirtfl of ti)e J^aster* 



R1SE3 said the Master, come unto the feast : 
- She heard the call, and rose with willing feet ; 

But thinking it not otherwise than meet 
For such a bidding to put on her best, 
She is gone from us for a few short hours 

Into her bridal-closet, there to wait 

For the unfolding of the palace-gate, 
That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. 
We have not seen her yet, though we have been 

Full often to her chamber-door, and oft 
Have listened underneath the postern green, 

And laid fresh flowers, and whispered short and soft 
But she hath made no answer, and the day 
From the clear west is fading fast away ! 

Henry Alford. 



STSe jFatjer to y^is jWotj&erless €j)illrrejUf 

Come gather closer to my side, 

My little smitten flock — 
And I will tell of him who brought 

Pure water from the rock ; 
Who boldly led God's people forth 

From Egypt's wrath and guile — 
He once a cradled babe did float 

All helpless on the Nile. 



THE FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. 105 

You're weary, precious ones — your eyes 

Are wandering far and wide ; 
Think ye of her who knew so well 

Your tender thoughts to guide ? 
Who could to Wisdom's sacred lore 

Your fixed attention claim — 
Oh ! never from your hearts erase 

That blessed Mother's name. 

'Tis time to sing your evening hymn — 

My youngest infant dove, 
Come press thy velvet cheek to mine, 

And learn the lay of love. 
My sheltering arm can clasp you all, 

My poor deserted throng ; 
Cling as you used to cling to her 

Who sings the angels' song. 

Begin, sweet birds, the accustomed strain — 

Come, warble loud and clear — 
Alas ! alas ! you're weeping all, 

You're sobbing in my ear. 
Good-night, go say the prayer she taught, 

Beside your little bed ; 
The lips that used to bless you there 

Are silent with the dead. 

A father's hand your course may guide 

Amid the thorns of life — 
His care protect these shrinking plants 

That dread the storms of life ; 
5* 



106 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

But who upon your infant heart 

Shall like that mother write 1 
Who touch the springs that rule the soul 1 

Dear mourning babes, good-night. 

L. H. SiGOURNET. 



Within this leaf, to every eye 
So little worth, doth hidden lie 
Most rare and subtle fragrancy : 

Wouldst thou its secret strength unbind ? 
Crush it, and thou shalt perfume find, 
Sweet as Arabia's spicy wind. 

In this dull stone, so poor, and bare 
Of shape or lustre, patient care 
Will find for thee a jewel rare. 

But first must skillful hands essay, 
With file and flint, to clear away 
The film, which hides its fire from day. 

This leaf] this stone ? It is thy heart, 
It must be crushed by pain and smart, 
It must be cleansed by sorrow's art — 

Ere it will yield a fragrance sweet, 
Ere it will shine a jewel meet. 
To lay before thy dear Lord's feet. 

WiLBERFOROE. 



THE MYSTERY OF PROVIDENCE. 107 



©fie iHwstcrg of JProbitrence* 

God moves iii a mysterious way 

His wonders to perform ; 
He plants his footsteps in the sea, 

And rides upon the storm. 

Deep in imfathomable mines 

Of never-failing skill, 
He treasures up his vast designs, 

And works his sovereign will. 

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take ; 

The clouds ye so much dread 
Are big with mercy, and will break 

In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 

But trust him for his grace ; 
Behind a frowning providence 

He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast, 

Unfolding every hour ; 
The bud may have a bitter taste, 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err, 

And scan his work in vain ; 
God is his own interpreter. 

And he will make it plain. 

COWPBB. 



108 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 



STJott art gone to tijt ^rabe. 

Thou art gone to the grave ! but we will not deplore thee, 
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb ; 

The Saviour hath passed through its portals before thee, 
And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom. 

Thou art gone to the grave ! we no longer behold thee, 
Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side ; 

But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee, 
And sinners may die, for the Sinless hath died. 

Thou art gone to the grave ! and, its mansion forsaking, 
"What though thy weak spirit in fear lingered long ? 

The sunshine of Paradise beamed on thy waking, 

And the sound which thou heardst, was the seraphim's song. 

Thou art gone to the grave ! but we will not deplore thee. 
For God was thy Ransom, thy Guardian, and Guide : 

He gave thee, he took thee, and he will restore thee ; 
And Death has no sting, for the Saviour hath died. 

Heber. 



STJe Butt 3ae}jo»e. 



Repose, then, precious clay ! 
Thou art in safer custody than mine, 
The purchase of atoning blood ! What though 
The sods of earth now cover thee, and rage 



GRATEFUL FOR CHASTISEMENT. 109 

The elements around thee ? Angels watch 

The sleeping dust ; nay, more. Omnipotence 

Is th' invisible Guardian of thy tomb ! 

Jesus ! the Mighty Conqueror of Death, 

Who felt its power and plucked its sting away, 

Drying our tears, addresses us in words 

Which glow with immortality : " Fear not ! 

For I am He that liveth and was dead. 

Behold ! I am alive for evermore ; 

And in my hand retain the keys of Death!" 

Then looking forward through the dim perspective 

Of this dark vale of weeping, let the eye 

Eest on the splendors of that cloudless morn, 

When the Archangel's pealing notes shall startle 

A slumb'ring earth ; the sea and land restore 

At the loud summons what they hold in trust, 

And o'er a renovated world resound 

The paeans of eternal victory ! 

*' Wells of Baca." 



€ft:atetttl for aif^untiBtrntnU 

Much have I born, but not as I should bear : 
The proud will unsubdued, the formal prayer, 
Tell me thou yet wilt chide, thou canst not spare, 

O Lord ! thy chastening rod. 

Oh ! help me, Father ! for my sinful heart 
Back from this discipline of grief would start, 
Unmindful of His sorer, deeper smart, 

Who died for me, my God ! 



110 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

Yet, if each wish denied, each woe and pain, 
Break but some link of that oppressive chain 
Which binds me still to earth, and leaves a stain 

Thou only canst remove — 

Then am I blest, O bliss from man concealed ! 
If here to Christ, the weak one's tower and shield, 
My heart, through sorrow, be set free to yield 

A service of deep love. 



2rS2 WBillbt tsom. 



Thy will be done ! I will not fear 

The fate provided by thy love ; 
Though clouds and darkness shroud me here, 

I know that all is bright above. 

The stars of heaven are shining on. 

Though these frail eyes are dimmed with tears ; 
The hopes of earth indeed are gone. 

But are not ours the immortal years ? 

Father, forgive the heart that clings, 
Thus trembling, to the things of time ; 

And bid my soul, on angel-wings. 
Ascend into a purer clime. 

There shall no doubts disturb its trust, 

No sorrows dim celestial love ; 
But these afflictions of the dust, 

Like shadows of the night, remove. 



THE OKE PEAYER. HI 

E'en now, above there's radiant day, 

While clouds and darkness brood below ; 

Then, Father, joyful on my way 
To drink the bitter cup I go. 

J. KOSOOE. 



€rse (Bnt 3P):arser. 



One prayer I have — ^all prayers in one- 

When I am wholly Thine ; 
Thy will, my God, thy will be done, 

And let that will be mine. 

All-wise, almighty, and all-good, 

In thee I firmly trust ; 
Thy ways, unknown or understood, 

Are merciful and just. 

May I remember that to thee 

Whate'er I have I owe ; 
And back, in gratitude, from me 

May all thy bounties flow. 

And though thy wisdom takes away. 

Shall I arraign thy will ? 
No, let me bless thy name, and say, 

" The Lord is gracious still." 



112 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

A pilgrim through the earth I roam, 

Of nothing long possessed, 
And all must fail when I go home, 

For this is not my rest. 

MONTaOMERY. 



WfiM^ 3aesCjj«elr» 



Christ leads us through no darker rooms 

Than he went through before. 
He that into God's kingdom comes, 

Must enter by this door. 
Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meet 

Thy blessed face to see ; 
For if thy work on earth be sweet, 
What will thy glory be ! 

Then I shall end my sad complaints, 

And weary, sinful days. 
And join with the triumphant saints 

That sing Jehovah's praise. 
My knowledge of that life is small, 

The eye of faith is dim, 
But 'tis enough that Christ knows all 

And I shall be with him. 



Baxter. 



NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE. 113 



Nearer, my God, to thee — 

Nearer to Thee ! 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raiseth me ; 
Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to thee. 

Nearer to thee ! 

Though like a wanderer. 

The sun gone down. 
Darkness comes over me, 

My rest a stone, 
• Yet in my dreams I'd be 
Nearer, my God, to thee — 

Nearer to thee! 

There let my way appear 

Steps unto heaven ; 
All that Thou sendest me 

In mercy given ; 
Angels to beckon me 
Nearer, my God, to thee ! 

Nearer to thee ! 

Then with my waking thoughts 
Bright with thy praise, 

Out of my stony griefs 
Bethel I'll raise ; 



114 THE DEATH OF A WIFE. 

So by my woes to be 
Nearer, my God, to thee — 
Nearer to Thee ! 

And when on joyful wing, 
Cleaving the sky ; 

Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 
Upward I fly ; 

Still all my song shall be. 

Nearer, my God, to thee — 
Nearer to thee ! 



Sttlimi0j5ion* 



Nowhere canst thou so magnify thy God 
As in the furnace-fires ! Submissive tears 
Wrung from the grieved yet unrepining heart, 
In silent eloquence proclaim the power 
Of Christian faith ; a living evidence 
Of love, a jewel for Immanuel's crown 
Prepared. Of old, when Salem's temple rose 
In strange majestic silence, " neither hammer 
Nor sound of axe, nor other tool, was heard*^ 
Within the stately fabric : So at times 
The hammer of affliction scarce the stone 
May feel, and yet 'tis polished and made meet 
For the Great Builder's use ; the spirit wafted, 
Like Israel's prophet in his car of fire, 



SUBMISSION. 115 

Upwards to glory, tasting scarce the pangs 

Of human woe ! Unwonted case ! to reach 

The heavenly goal uncovered with the scars 

Of earthly battle ! Christian combatant ! 

The conflict is unchanged. Who would the path 

Of suffering avoid, his Saviour trod, 

Or claim immunity from woe, when HE 

Attained His crown with " garments rolled in blood" ? 

" "Wells op Baca." 



Hottr, tescj un to pvu^* 



There are who mock at prayer, and "with their blind 
And tangled sophistries would shake our faith 
In that which to our hearts the Eather saith 
When he commands to seek that we may find. 
Ah I fools, and vain I whence shall the fainting mind 
Seek strength but from the Strong — ^where find repose 
But in that Friend who all its troubles knows, 
And aU its wounds can tenderly upbind ? 
All pious hearts onmt pray ; they can not Hve 
Save as they breathe an atmosphere of prayer. 
Their life began with prayer : " Lord I forgive," 
Was their soul's birth-wail, and, as on they fare, 
Their cry is still for help ; and still they say, 
When nearest Christ : ** Lord, teach us how to pray." 

W. L Alexander. 



^\}t Wtal\) 0f a §u0baittir* 



BY 



REV. GEORGE W. BETHUNE, D.D. 



Wottin of StrijJtttte 



GLORY IN TEIBTTLATION. 

Being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, 
By whom also we have access by faith into this grace wherein we stand, and rejoico 
in hope of the glory of God, And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also, 
knowing that tribulation worketh patience ; and patience, experience ; and expe- 
rience, hope ; and hope maketh not ashamed, because the love of God is shed abroad 
In our hearts, by the Holy Ghost which is given unto ua— Eomans 1 : 5. 

Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecu- 
tions, in distresses for Christ's sake; for when I am weak, then am I strong.— 
2 Corinthians 12: 10. 

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or 
persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword ? As it is written, fcr Thy 
Bake we are killed all the day long ; we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter. 
Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us. 
For I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor 
powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other 
creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ JesiiS 
our Lord.— Romans 8 : 35-S9. 



mt|' 0f a fiisfeA 



"She goeth unto the grave to weep there." 

It is a sad thing to bury onr dead out of our 
sight — ^to close up and to bear away to the grave, 
and leave behind us in its earthy chilliness, the 
dear form we have cherished so fondly, there 
to return again to dust, as though it had never 
been ! And then how heavy on the heart is the 
stillness that succeeds the last scene in the house 
of mourning ! We can not bring ourselves to 
believe that the loved and departed are indeed 
gone, and that for them our cares and nursings 
and watchings are over for ever. "We tread 
lightly past the door of the chamber where the 
sujfferer was but is not, as though yet our step 
might break the uneasy slumber, or jar the sore 
and weary frame. Our very senses cheat us with 



120 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

sorrowful but not unwelcome delusions. "We 
seem to hear tlie sighings, tlie faint murmurings, 
the groanings of that voice which is hushed until 
the morning of the resurrection. We listen for 
the step that was music to our welcoming hearts. 
We watch the opening door in a sickening hope 
that the lost will return again, and prove all to 
have been a dream ; and when we kneel to pray, 
the accustomed petition for them, to pray for 
whom now is sin, rises to our lips, and chokes 
our utterance. Amidst such grief, the human 
heart in all ages and countries, has sought a 
melancholy comfort in paying a pious respect to 
the remains of mortality. These are the last 
offices that affection can render — the last proof 
of a fidelity that served them living, and yet 
yearns unavailingly to serve them dead. 

Among the more ancient and Eastern nations, as 
indeed still among those whose feelings are more 
passionate if not more lasting than those of our 
colder Anglo-Saxon lineage, there was a beautiful 
sacredness in every thing touching death, burial, 
and the resting-places of the dead. To be deprived 
of funereal rites was a calamity of the last degree 
of bitterness, such as hate invoked against ene- 
mies, and love deprecated in behalf of friends. 
To violate the sanctuary of the tomb, was more 



THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 121 

impious in the siglit of Heaven, and more offensive 
to men, than to wrong the living. Neither pains 
nor expense was spared to render the obseqnies 
imposing, and to adorn the sepulchre. It is true, 
the pride of family, of wealth, and power, often 
thus made a mockery of a sorrow that was little 
felt ; yet it was to counterfeit the modes which 
had their origin in the best and truest feelmgs 
that sin has left in our fallen nature ; feelings 
which Christianity does not rebuke but hallows ; 
for to the believer, the three dearest spots on 
earth are the home of kindred hearts, the sanc- 
tuary of our spiritual enjoyments, and the place 
where our dead are sleeping. 

But of all nations, none seem to have carried 
these last testimonies of respect farther than the 
Jews. Of this we have a remarkable instance at 
the burial of the first Caesar. Suetonius tells us, 
that representatives of every people tributary to 
the Mistress of the World joined in the obsequies, 
and after their peculiar customs mourned for him, 
who, with all his faults, was as clement as he was 
ambitious ; but of them all, the Jews v/ere most 
remarkable for the expression and vehemence 
of their grief. Doubtless, their religion, which 
taught them intimations of the resurrection and 
immortality, contributed to increase their regard 



122 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

for a dust tliat was sacred, and to awaken a hope 
that such, signs of affection were not displeasing 
to the disembodied spirit. 

The public burial-places of the Jews were always 
without the gates of the city ; for the injurious 
custom of crowding the dead in towns and about 
rehgious edifices arose afterwards in the dark ages 
of a grasping and heathenish perversion of Christ- 
ianity. The cemetery of each family was care- 
fully set apart from the rest, adorned with mourn- 
ful taste ; and thither they often went, to strew 
fresh flowers and to weep for those who slept 
around. It was not, however, unusual for the 
richer families to build private sepulchres in the 
gardens or groves near their country dwellings. 
Such was the sepulchre of Lazarus, the brother 
of the weeper in our text. Such also, as you 
remember, was the sepulchre of Joseph of Arith- 
mathea, built by him before death had entered 
his immediate family, and in which was laid the 
pure but exanimate body of our crucified Master. 
'' There was a garden, and in the garden a new 
sepulchre, wherein man was never yet laid." 
Thus they did not banish from their minds the 
grave and the dead, but kept the expectation of 
death and the memories of the departed in their 
fomiliar thoughts. 



THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 4 

It were salutary, and not unnatural, fo} as, 
like them, at least in spirit, to go often to 6lie 
grave, to meditate and weep there. 

We are made of dust, says tlie Scripture cate- 
cMst, to teach, us to be humble, and mindful of 
death ; and many a profitable lesson may be 
learned by looking upon the graves that are 
ready for us, and those in which our kindred 
lie. The young, the gay, and the very worldly, 
may think there is nothing but horrid gloom in 
such thoughts ; but I believe that I am not 
wrong in saying that few persons given to con- 
templation pass many years of life without find- 
ing death and the shroud become more and more 
the subject of their meditations. The ancient 
heathen philosophers, feeble as were their notions 
of an after life, are full of death in their writings ; 
nay, says one of them — and others have the same 
sentiments — the study of death is the worthy 
business of life, and they best live who are learn- 
ing how to die. The poets who are truest to 
nature, love to dwell upon its sad images ; and 
one whose numbers were soft even to voluptu- 
ousness, closes a sweet picture of domestic happi- 
ness, by wishing that she whom he loved might 
be near him in his last sufferings, to catch the 
]ast pressure of his faithful but failing hand, and 



124 Tni^ DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

to follow Mm to tlie grave witt lier tears. Mucli 
more should we, wlio have tlie light of liope 
gleaming upon us tlirough. tlie sepulchre from 
the bright world beyond, dwell upon the same 
event that happeneth to us all. 

Yes ! we must die ! Yet a little while, the sun 
shall no more shine for us* Home and loving 
friends, and fond hopes, and ambitious imagin- 
ings, and gainful schemes, and flatteries of grow- 
ing wisdom, and plans of usefulness, and promises 
of better living, must all be left behind. How 
should we hold our treasures of aifection as but 
lent to us from God ! How should we feel the 
emptiness of all that has no link to immortality 
and heaven ! How should we strive to do what- 
ever good work our hands find to do ! The 
Master ever looked forward to his death; and 
the rule of his divine life — the gracious pattern 
given for our following — ^was to work the will 
of Him that sent him while it was day ; knowing 
the night cometh when no man can work. In- 
deed, if we would live like the blessed St. Paul, 
we must ^' die daily." Our hope as Christians, 
the crown of our rejoicing, the inheritance we 
share in our Redeemer, our true life and place 
of living is beyond the tomb. Death must be 
swallowed up of life, before the \dctory can be 
ours. 



THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 125 

Nor is tlie grave always sad in its associations. 
Life is sweet, and it is a pleasant thing to look 
upon the sun. But life is not all sweetness. 
There are moments when the heart that has gone 
forth seeking those to love and trust and win by 
service and kind deeds to them, is driven back, 
weary, torn, and bleeding, to its bosom ; when we 
miss those who were once faithful and true and 
fall of sympathy and gentle patience, but who 
now are silent in the tomb — ^who can not hear 
us when we call them, to whose side we may not 
go, and whose kind comfortings we may not hear 
again ; or when others that we leaned upon in 
our confidence, and opened our hearts to in their 
weakness and in their strength, as we would 
open them to God, have proved but as Egyptian 
reeds, piercing us the deeper from the very reli- 
ance we put upon them ; when our good deeds 
are warped by cruel suspicion from their motives, 
and our faulty ones magnified and blazed abroad ; 
when we see our labors fail of fruit, and a cloud 
darkens over our following days, and sin wit- 
nesses against us, and temptations press hard 
upon us, and our burden seems more than we 
can bear ; then we look Uipon the peaceful grave 
and the quiet dead, and if God permitted, and it 
were not wrong to be impatient, we could wish 



L26 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

10 lie down wliere tlie wicked cease from troub- 
ling. Thus tliouglit tlie patient man of Uz ; and 
wlao would live always if lie have a hope beyond 
the grave ? It is sweet to do the Master's work ; 
iiay, it is sweet to suffer his holy will, enjoying 
his sympathy ; but there are moments when we 
can not choose but think that it would be a 
privilege if we might, 

" sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach our grave, 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams." 

It is good for us to go to the grave, that we 
may weep and meditate over the dead. 

There lie those whom we might have served 
but did not, whose good we might have secured 
by the divine blessing, who are now beyond the 
reach of kindness, faith, and prayers. Not un- 
availing will be our regrets, if they send us back 
to serve and bless the living, ere they, too, are 
gone ; and if, as we look down upon the sleeping 
mould, we remember that we have ever wounded 
any there by unkindness and harsh thoughts and 
serpent-stinged words ; or have judged merci- 
lessly and fiercely the spirit that God, who will 
soon judge us, has since judged, how deep will 
be our relentings — for they can not now hear 



THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 127 

our regrets or speak our forgiveness. Yet not 
unavailing shall those relentings be, if they teach 
us charity and meek judgment, such as sinners 
should use with sinners, to the living who are 
yet with us, but who must soon be as the dead. 
We are not forbidden to weep for the dead. 
God, who hath given us hearts to suffer, hath 
given us tears to relieve them, by giving vent 
to their swelling sorrows. He hath said not 
only, Blessed are they that mourn, but also. 
Blessed are they that weep ; and graciously 
promised, that they who sow in tears shall reap 
in joy. It is true, these tears should be shed 
in pious trust and resignation ; but still, tears 
are not forbidden. God counts and bottles up 
the tears of his people, shed in gentle submission 
but actual sorrow. He chastens us, that we 
may suffer, and tears are the outward signs of 
suffering. It is hardness of heart, a rebellious 
obstinacy that does not feel ; and sad indeed is 
the case of those whose throbbing brain and 
constricted heart can not find relief in tears. 
The stubborn child winces not at the chastening 
rod, but with malignant eye refuses to confess 
his pain, lest it should seem to be repentance ; 
but the penitent one turns to kiss the smiting 
hand, and to sob out his contrition on his 



128 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAKD. 

parent's bosom. It is the ordinance of God for 
Ms fallen cliildren, tliat ''joy mnst have sorrow, 
and sorrow joy." There were no tears in Eden 
before sin entered, becanse there was no sorrow 
there. There are no tears in heaven, for the 
Lord God Almighty and the Lamb hath wiped 
them from ojff all faces ; bnt that tears and 
holiness are not forbidden to be together, the 
narrative of our text sweetly shows us. 

The Jews had three terms of mourning for 
the dead. The first three days were called 
emphatically the days of weeping. Then fol- 
lowed four days of lamentation ; and they filled 
up thirty days after the burial with various 
signs of mourning. During the days of weep- 
ing, and those more intimate durmg the days of 
lamentation, the friends of the family remained 
with them, sharing and comforting their grief. 
Lazarus had now been dead four days, yet we 
find many of the Jews about the house of the 
afflicted sisters. Jesus also, with his disciples, 
came from a distance to prove the sympathies 
of their friendship. When he drew near the 
house, he heard the voice of their mourning ; he 
met Martha, and then Mary. He heard their 
passionate bursts of grief, and saw their tears. 
Yet he did not rebuke them. He looked upon 



THE DEATH OF A HUSBAJ^D. 129 

them, and Jesus wept. Tlie Healer, the Com- 
forter, tlie Holy One of Israel wept ! AL. ! be- 
loved Master ! thou hadst already learned to 
weep, when by the sea-shore and on the moun- 
tain thou didst offer thy prayers unto thy 
Father, with '' strong crying and tears." 

No, beloved mourner, weep ! Gush forth the 
full luxury of your grief. For you the Master 
wept, that you might not weep in vain. But 
as you weep, grasp his feet as the weeping sisters 
did ; wrestle with him as the weeping Jacob did, 
and from the hope of his promise turn your 
sadness into weeping joy. 

The sorrowful remembrance of the dead hath 
most excellent uses. 

I have heard of some who strive always to 
forget the friends they have lost ; and we read 
in a poet's lines, that '^ Time, the adorner of the 
ruin," is '' the bosom's comforter." Alas ! the 
heart that craves comfort from forgetfulness, 
must be as hard and cold and cheerless as the 
stones of the ruin that time adorns with the ivy 
and the moss. Who that hath been happy or 
sad in affection would forget ? 

" What are a tliousand living loves 
To that which can not quit the dead ?" 
6* 



180 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

We may indeed cease to pour unavailing and 
passionate tears. The remaining duties of life 
call ns from onr sackcloth, and ashes ; bnt though 
the rain may fall less plentifully, the dews of sad 
remembrance still keep the heart, as affliction 
made it, soft and tender, and, by divine grace, 
fruitful. How precious to the Christian are the 
prayers which the pious dead offered for us in 
the days of their flesh; the dying words of 
counsel or of thanks we caught from their expir- 
ing lips ! 

The dead remind us of our kindred to the 
dust, and the pious dead link us, if we have the 
like faith with them, to heaven. Each friend 
we lose takes a portion from our life — the 
heart goes piece-meal to the tomb long before it 
breaks with the last agony. ^' I shall go to him," 
said the singer of Israel, over the grave of his 
child ; '' I shall go to him, but he shall not re- 
turn to me." Thus should we use the memories 
of those who die in hope, to draw us onward in 
the narrow way, and to uplift with our love to 
them our whole affections to the things that are 
not seen and eternal. 

Yet that our sorrow may be blessed, let us go 
to Jesus with it. The Jews thought Mary was 
going to weep at the sepulchre, and so she did ; 



THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 131 

but she liad heard that the Master had come, and 
she went first to him, and he went with her to 
the grave. He went with her first to weep and 
then to turn her monrning into joy with life from 
the dead. Ah ! my friend, whatever we mean 
to do, let ns go first to Jesus. If we mean to be 
glad, and go not first to him, our joy shall be 
turned into sorrow ; if we mean to weep, and go 
not to him, our sorrow shall never be turned into 
joy. When blessing comes or trial comes, it 
brings to us the message that Martha bore to 
Mary, "The Master is come, and calleth for 
thee," and we should, hke Mary, '^ rise up hastily" 
and go forth to meet him. And, blessed Saviour, 
when did ever mourner seek thee, and not find 
thee, or find thee and not find comfort ? 

But if we take Jesus with us to the grave of 
the pious dead, we mourn not without hope, for 
He that then stands with us beside the grave 
is the Resurrection and the Life — He that liveth 
and was dead and is alive again. We have no 
reason to hope that he will bid us take away 
the monumental stone, and call the dead them- 
selves back to us in life. But he will give us the 
better consolation of knowing that the dust rests 
in hope, and that the spirit is happy with him 
in sinless, glorious, sorrowless delight. Is not 



132 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

that a better consolation? Wlio would be so 
selfish, as to wish that the happy dead were back 
with us among the bitter sorrows and the more 
painful sins of this sad hfe ? The pilgrim has 
reached his home ; shall we call him back to toil 
with us through the sands and pine beneath the 
scorching heat of the desert ? The warrior has 
won the victory, and God has put the amaran- 
thine crown upon his head, and the unfading 
palm in his hand ; would we have him cast them 
aside and mingle again in the dust of the conflict 
to feel its wounds ? The exiled sinner ha-s been 
received back again to his Father's house, and 
they are making '^ heaven ring with jubilee, and 
loud hosannas fill the eternal regions f would we 
call him to us in this far country to share our 
mortal raggedness and the husks of this life? 
ISTo, blessed dead^ may your dust sleep on in 
a peace God's holy angels are watching over. 
We shall see that dust reanimated. Jesus, the 
life, shall raise up your mortal immortality, your 
corruption incorruption. Again shall we look 
upon your beloved face, but no longer pale with 
sickness and worn with weeping. You shall 
be glorious as the Master himself is glorified, m 
holy, perpetual, tearless youth. Again shall we 
hear your loved voice, not in sighs and groan- 



THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 133 

ings, and struggling prayers, but hymning with 
ten thousand times ten thousand thousand, halle- 
lujahs far above the pitch of cherubim and se- 
raphim. If it be the Master's will that we must 
still struggle on in tears, and persecutions, and 
temptations, and conflicts, to bear the winter's 
rage and summer's heat, we are glad that you 
have gone home and taken your wages. Peace 
be to your dust ! and until 

" The illustrious morning break, 
When aH the saints shall rise," 

sing on with your spiritual voice the song of 
heaven, swelling high the praise of Him whom 
you loved on earth as you cast your crown at the 
feet that were nailed upon the cross. God keep 
us to join you ; and oh! if it be his holy will, 
may it be soon, for some of us are weary, weary, 
and have great need of patience until we get the 
promises. 

Mary wept for her brother, and she had the 
sympathy of Him whom it is our blessed privi- 
lege to claim as our Elder Brother ; but the pious 
widow weeping over the grave of him who was 
the bosom companion of her life, until it pleased 
God to receive his spirit sanctified through Christ, 
may appeal to the Mediator's heart by a yet 



134 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

dearer name ; for wlien tlie Lord would show 
how tenderly and faithfully he " nonrisheth and 
cherisheth his Church," (Eph. 5 : 29,) he calls 
himself her husband, her precious, holy, affec- 
tionate '' husband.'^ So, heart-stricken mourner, 
he knows the grief and anguish you feel; he 
knows the desolateness of your spirit and its 
yearning after a solace the world can not give. 
Go to the grave of your beloved one ; but as 
you go let not your tears so blind you, neither 
so hang down your head that you may not see 
that Jesus has come to meet and sustain you. 
Hear his gracious voice from beside the tomb : 
" I am the Resurrection and the Life, he that be- 
lieveth in me though he were dead yet shall he 
live ; and whosoever hveth and believeth in me 
shall never die." Believest thou this ? Your 
husband is not dead. His believing soul that 
hved with Christ here, now lives with Christ in 
heaven ; and his Christian dust is sleeping sweetly 
until he shall rise, immortal, glorious, and incor- 
ruptible at the resurrection of the last day. All 
your love, and watching, and anxious nursing 
could not save him from suffering and sickness 
and the tomb ; but the love of Jesus has deliv- 
ered him from all, and taken him up to that sin- 
less, sorrowless home where there " shall be no 



THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 135 

more death, neitlier sorrow, nor crying, neither 
shall there be any more pain; for the former 
things shall have passed away." Here yon were 
nnited in a better than an earthly love, the love 
of Christ, and in that love you are and shall be 
nnited for ever. Look, then, beyond the scene 
of yonr mortal grief, to the home of yonr per- 
petual bliss. Christ has lain in the tomb and 
sweetened it for the sleep of his beloved and 
yours ; but as you stoop to see within the sepul- 
chre see you not that it is broken, and that the 
uprising Master ^has opened a way through it, up 
through the rent veil, up through the everlast- 
ing doors, to the paradise of God ? There seek 
to follow ; and when you di^aw near the celestial 
threshold, you will find waiting to welcome you 
one more radiant than an angel, in whose trans- 
figmjed countenance you will recognize him you 
have not lost, but who has gone before to our 
Father's house. 



IPo^m^. 



THOU of dark forebodings drear ! 
thou of such a faithless heart ! 
Hast thou forgotten what thou art, 
That thou hast ventured so to fear ? 

No weed oh ocean's bosom cast, 
Borne by its never-resting foam 
This way and that, without a home 
Till flung on some bleak shore at last ; 

But thou the lotus, which above 

Swayed here and there by wind and tide, 

Yet still below doth fixed abide. 

Fast rooted in the Eternal Love. Trench. 



founts 011 1|^ §m^ of n |5ttskiit 



There was an eye, whose partial glance 
Could ne'er mj numerous failings see ; 
There was an ear that heard untired 
When others spoke in praise of me. 

There was a heart time onlj taught 
With warmer love for me to burn ; 
A heart whene'er from home I roved 
Which fondly pined for my return. 

There was a lip which always breathed 
E'en short farewells in tones of sadness ; 
There was a voice whose eager sound 
My welcome spoke with heartfelt gladness. 

There was a mind whose vigorous power 
On mine its own effulgence threw, 
And called my humble talents forth, 
While thence its dearest joys it drew. 



140 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

There was a love, which for my weal 
AVith anxious fears would overflow ; 
Which wept, which prayed for me, and sought 
From future ills to guard — but now — 

That eye is closed, and deaf that ear, 
That lip and voice are mute for ever ; 
And cold that heart of anxious love. 
Which death alone from mine could sever : 



And lost to me that ardent mind, 
Which loved my various tasks to see ; 
And oh ! of all the praise I gained 
His was the dearest far to me ! 



Now I, unloved, uncheered, alone^ 
Life's dreary wilderness must tread, 
Till He who heals the broken heart 
In mercy bids me join the dead. 

O Thou ! who from thy throne on high, 
Canst heed the mourner's deep distres 
O Thou ! who hear'st the widow's cry — 
Thou, Father of the fatherless ! 

Though now I am a faded leaf. 
That's severed from its parent tree, 
And thrown upon a stormy tide, 
Life's awful tide that leads to Thee, 



'rSE FUTURE GLORY. 141 

Still, gracious Lord ! the voice of praise 

Shall spring spontaneous from my breast ; 

Since though I tread a weary way 

I trust that he I mourn is blest. 

Mes. Opie. 



STJe iFuture ^lor^* 



WouLDST thou inherit life with Christ on high t 

Then count the cost, and know 

That here on earth below 
Thou needst must suffer with thy Lord, and die. 
We reach that gain to which all else is loss, 
But through the Cross, 

Oh ! think what sorrows Christ himself has known ! 

The scorn, and anguish sore. 

The bitter death he bore, 
Ere he ascended to his heavenly throne ; 
And deemest thou, thou canst with right complain, 
Whatever thy pain ? 

Not e'en the sharpest sorrows we can feel, 

Nor keenest pangs, we dare 

With that great bliss compare 

When God his glory shall in us reveal, 

That shall endure when our brief days are o'er 

For evermore ! 

Lyra Germamca. 



142 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 



Ste Voict Of tjje JBeparteir* 

" I SHINE in the light of God, 

His likeness stamps my brow ; 
Through the valley of death my feet have trod. 

And I reign in glory now. 
No breaking heart is here ; 

No keen and thrilling pain ; 
No w^asted cheek, where the frequent tear 

Hath rolled and left its stain. 

*' I have found the joy of heaven ; 

I am one of the angel-band ; 
To my head a crown is given, 

And a harp is in my hand. 
I have learned the song they sing, 

Whom Jesus hath made free ; 
And the glorious walls on high still ring 

With my new-born melody. 

" No sin, no grief, no pain ; 

Safe in my happy home ; 
My fears all fled — my doubts all slain ; 

My hour of triumph come. 
Friend of my mortal years ! 

The trusted and the tried ! 
Thou art walking still in the valley of tears, 

But I am at thy side. 



THE WIDOW. 143 

" Do I forget ? Oh ! no ! 

For memory's golden chain 
Shall bind my heart to the heart below 

Till they meet and touch again. 
Each link is strong and bright, 

And love's electric flame 
Flows freely down, like a river of light, 

To the world from which I came, 

" Do you mourn when another star 

Shines out from the glittering sky ? 
Do you weep when the noise of war 

And the rage of conflict die ? 
Then why should your tears roll down, 

And your heart with grief be riven, 
For another gem in the Saviour'' s crown^ 

And another soul in heaven?'''^ 

M. a. J. 



s:j)e ^itroto* 



There is a mourner, and her heart is broken ; 
She is a widow ; she is old and poor ; 
Her only hope is in that sacred token 
Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er. 
She asks nor wealth nor pleasure ; begs no more 
Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight 
Of her Redeemer. Skeptics, would you pour 
Your blasting vials on her head, and blight 
Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's 
night ? 



144 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

She lives in her affections ; for the grave 

Has closed upon her husband, children ; all 

Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save 

Her treasured jewels. Though her views are small, 

Though she has never mounted high to fall 

And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring 

Of her meek, tender feelings can not pall 

Her unperverted palate, but will bring 

A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting. 

Even as a fountain whose unsullied wave 
Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er 
With silent waters, kissing as they lave 
The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore 
Of matted grass and flowers — so softly pour 
The breathings of her bosom when she prays 
Low-bowed before her Maker ; then no more 
She muses on the griefs of former days — 
Her full heart melts, and flows in Heaven's dissolving 
rays. 

And faith can see a new world ; and the eyes 
Of saints look pity on her. Death will come : 
A few short moments over and the prize 
Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb 
Becomes her fondest pillow : all its gloom 
Is scattered. What a meeting there will be 
To her and all she loved here ! and the bloom 
Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee : 
Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity. 

Percival. 



AND SAID UlSTTO HER, ^'WEEP NOT!" 145 



— ^nlr saiir xmto Jer, **t!Mup not!** 

Leave all to God, 
Forsaken one, and still thy tears. 

For the Highest knows thy pain, 
Sees thy sufferings and thy fears ; 
Thou shalt not wait his help in vain- 
Leave all to God. 



Be still and trust ! 
For His strokes are strokes of love, 

Thou must for thy profit bear ; 
He thy filial fear would move; 
Trust thy Father's loving care, 
Be still and trust ! 

Know God is near ! 
Though thou think him far away. 

Though his mercy long have slept, 
He will come and not delay. 

When his child enough hath wept. 
For God is near ! 

Oh! teach Him not 
When and how to hear thy prayers ; 

Never doth our God forget. 
He the cross who longest bears 
Finds his sorrow's bounds are set: 
Then teach Him not ! 
7 



146 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

If thou love Him, 



"Walking truly in his ways, 

Then no trouble, cross, or death, 
Shakes thy heart, or quells thy praise. 
All things serve thee here beneath 
If thou love God.' 

Lyra Germanica. 



^11 nxt not ^u'ktn. 

All are not taken ! there are left behind 

Living beloveds, tender looks to bring. 

And make the daylight still a blessed thing, 

And tender voices, to make soft the wind. 

But if it were not so — if I could find 

No love in all the world to answer me, 

Nor any pathway but rang hollowly. 

Where " dust to dust," the love from life disjoined- 

And if with parched lips, as in a dearth 

Of water-springs the very deserts claim, 

I uttered to those sepulchres unmoving 

The bitter cry, " Where are ye, O my loving !" 

I know a voice would sound, " Daughter, I AM ! 

Can I suffice for heaven, and not for earth *?" 

Elizabeth Barrett BROWNma. 



HE CAKETH FOR YOU. 147 



?^e ataxttf^ tot You* 

What within me and without, 

Hourly on my spirit weighs, 
Burdening heart and soul with doubt, 

Darkening all my weary days : 
In it I behold Thy will, 

God, who givest rest and peace, 
And my heart is calm and still. 

Waiting till thou send release. 

God ; thou art my rock and strength, 

And my home is in thine arms. 
Thou wilt send me help at length, 

And I feel no wild alarms. 
Sin nor Death can pierce the shield 

Thy defense has o'er me thrown, 
Up to thee myself I yield. 

And my sorrows are thine own. 



When my trials tarry long. 

Unto thee I look and wait, 
Knowing none, though keen and strong, 

Can my trust in thee abate. 
And this faith I long have nursed. 

Comes alone, O God ! from thee, 
Thou my heart didst open first, 

Thou didst set this hope in me. 



148 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

Christians ! cast on Him your load — 

To your tower of refuge fly ; 
Know he is the Living God, 

Ever to his creature nigh. 
See his ever-open door 

In your hours of utmost need ; 
All your hearts before him pour, 

He will send you help with speed. 

But hast thou some darling plan. 

Cleaving to the things of earth 1 
Leanest thou for aid on man ? 

Thou wilt find him nothing worth. 
Eather trust the One alone 

Whose is endless power and love, 
And the help he gives his own, 

Thou in very deed shalt prove. 

On thee, O my God ! I rest. 

Letting life float calmly on ; 
For I know the last is best. 

When the crown of joy is won. 
In thy might all things I bear, 

In thy love find bitters sweet, 
And with all my grief and care. 

Sit in patience at thy feet, 

O my soul ! why art thou vexed ? 

Let things go e'en as they will ; 
Though to thee they seem perplexed, 

Yet His order they fulfill. 



PATIEKT WAITING. 149 

Here he is thy strength and guard ; 

Power to harm thee here has none ; 
Yonder will He each reward 

For the works he here has done, 

Let Thy mercy's wings be spread 

O'er me, keep me close to thee ; 
In the peace thy love doth shed, 

Let me dwell eternally. 
Be my all ; in all I do 

Let me only seek thy will ; 
Where the heart to thee is true, 

All is peaceful, calm, and still. 

Lyra G-ermanioa. 



SPatient mmiUQ. 



Oh ! let my trembling soul be still, 
While darkness veils this mortal eye. 

And wait Thy wise, thy holy will. 
Wrapped yet in fears and mystery ; 

I can not, Lord thy purpose see ; 

Yet all is well, since ruled by thee. 

When mounted on thy clouded car. 
Thou send'st thy darker spirits down, 

I can discern thy light afar — 

Thy light, sweet beaming through thy frown 

And should I faint a moment, then 

I think of thee, and smile again. 



160 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

So, trusting in thy love, I tread 

The narrow path of duty on ; 
What though some cherished joys are fled? 

What though some flattering dreams are gone ? 
Yet purer, brighter joys remain ; • 
Why should my spirit, then, complain ? 



Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar, 

Along the Palmist's music deep — 
Now tell me if that any is, 
For gift or grace, surpassing this — 

" He giveth his beloved sleep" ? 

What would we give to our beloved 1 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved — 

The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep — 
The senate's shout for patriot vows — 
The monarch's crown to light the brows 1 

*' He giveth his beloved sleep." 

What do we give to our beloved ? 
A little faith not all unproved — 
A little dust, to over weep — 



THE SLEEP. 151 

And bitter memories to make 
The whole earth blasted for our sake *? 
" He giveth his beloved sleep," 

Sleep soft, beloved ! we sometimes say ; 
But have no power to charm away 

Sad dreams that though the eyelids creep ; 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber, when 

^' He giveth his beloved sleep." 
O earth ! so full of dreary noises ! 
O men ! with wailing in your voices ! 

O delved gold, the wallers' heap ! 
O strife ! curse ! that o'er it fall ! 
God makes a silence through you all, 

And " giveth his beloved sleep." 

His dews drop mutely on the hill ; 
His cloud above it, saileth still. 

Though on its slope men toil and reap ! 
More softly than the dew is shed 
A cloud is floated over-head : 

" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

Yea ! men may wonder, while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man 

Sufficient such a rest to keep ; 
But angels say — and through the word 
The motion of their smile is heard, 

" He giveth his beloved sleep." 



152 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

For me, my heart — that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 

Seeing through tears the juggler leap- 
Would fain its wearied vision close, 
And child-like on His love repose. 

Who " giveth his beloved sleep. 






And friends ! dear friends ! when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me — 

When round my bier ye come to weep ; 
Let one, most loving of you all, 
Say, " Not a tear miist o'er her fall — 

" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

Elizabeth Barrett BROWNiNCf. 



'^m iu tit 3SLoxn.** 

It is the Lord — enthroned in light. 
Whose claims are all divine ; 

Who has an undisputed right, 
To govern me and mine. 

It is the Lord — who governs all — 
My wealth, my friends, my ease, 

And of his bounties may recall 
Whatever part he please. 



"it is the lord." 153 

It is the Lord — should I distrust, 

Or contradict his will 
Who can not do but what is just, 

And must be righteous still ? 



It is the Lord — ^who can sustain 
Beneath the heaviest load. 

From whom assistance I obtain, 
To tread the thorny road. 

It is the Lord — whose matchless skill 
Can from afflictions raise — 

Matter, eternity to fill 

With ever growing praise. 



It is the Lord — my covenant God, 

Thrice blessed be his name ! 
Whose gracious promise, sealed with blood, 

Must ever be the same. 



His covenant will my soul defend. 

Should nature's self expire ; 

And the great Judge of all descend 

In awful, flaming fire. 

Green. 



»y* 



154 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 



SLOOltUTB to 3tBUB. 

When along life's thorny road, 
Faints the soul beneath the load, 
By its cares and sins oppressed, 
Finds on earth no peace or rest ; 
When the wily tempter's near, 
Filling me with doubts and fear, 
Jesus, to thy feet I flee, 
Jesus, I will look to thee. 



Thou, my Saviour, from the throne, 
List'nest to thy people's moan ; 
Thou, the living head, dost share 
Every pang thy members bear. 
Full of tenderness thou art ; 
Thou wilt heal the broken heart ; 
Full of power, thine arm shall quell 
All the rage and might of hell ! 



By thy tears o'er Lazarus shed, 
By thy power to raise the dead. 
By thy meekness under scorn. 
By thy stripes and crown of thorn, 
By that rich and precious blood. 
That hath made our peace with God ; 
Jesus, to thy feet I flee ; 
Jesus, I will cling to thee. 



GIVE ME THINE HEAET. 155 

Mighty to redeem and save, 
Thou hast overcome the grave ; 
Thou the bars of death hast riven, 
Opened wide the gates of heaven ; 
Soon in glory thou shalt come, 
Taking thy poor pilgrims home ; 
Jesus, then we all shall be, 
Ever — ever — Lord, with Thee. 



®fCbe me tJCne 3§eatt* 

HJERE is my heart ! — my God, I give it thee ; 
I heard thee call and say, 
" Not to the world, my child, but unto me" — 
I heard and will obey. 
Here is love's offering to my King, 
Which a glad sacrifice I bring — 
Here is my heart. 

Here is my heart ! — surely the gifl, though poor, 

My God will not despise ; 
Vainly and long I sought to make it pure, 
To meet thy searching eyes ; 
Corrupted first in Adam's fall. 
The stains of sin pollute it all — 
My guilty heart ! 



156 THE DEATH OF A HUSBAN-p. 

Here is my heart! — mj heart so hard before, 

Now by thy grace made meet ; 
Yet bruised and wearied, it can only pour 
Its anguish at thy feet : 
It groans beneath the weight of sin, 
It sighs salvation's joy to win — 
My mourning heart! 

Here is my heart ! — in Christ its longings end, 

Near to his cross it draws ; 
It says, " Thou art my portion, O my Eriend ! 
Thy blood my ransom was." 
And in the Saviour it has found 
What blessedness and peace abound — 
My trusting heart ! 

Here is my heart ! ah ! Holy Spirit, come, 

Its nature to renew, 
And consecrate it wholly as thy home, 
A temple fair and true. 
Teach it to love and serve thee more, 
To fear thee, trust thee, and adore — 
My cleaned heart ! 

Here is my heart ! — it trembles to draw near 

The glory of thy throne : 
Give it the shining robe thy servants wear. 
Of righteousness thine own : 
Its pride and folly chase away. 
And all its vanity, I pray — 
My humbled heart ! 



BROKEN-HEAETED, WEEP NO MORE ! 157 

Here is my heart ! — teach it, O Lord ! to cling 

In gladness unto thee ; 
And in the day of sorrow still to sing, 
" Welcome my God's decree." 
Believing, all its journey through. 
That thou art wise, and just, and true — 
My waiting heart ! 

Here is my heart ! — O Friend of friends ! be near, 

To make each tempter fly. 
And when my latest foe I wait with fear. 
Give me the victory ! 
Gladly on Thy love reposing, 
Let me say, when life is closing, 
Here is my heart ! 

Ehrenfried Liediok. 



aStoifeen^JSeattelr, toeep no morel 

Broken-hearted, weep no more ! 

Hear what comfort He hath spoken, 
Smoking flax who ne'er hath quenched. 
Bruised reed who ne'er hath broken : 
" Ye who wander here below. 
Heavy laden as ye go. 
Come, with grief, with sin oppressed, 
Come to me, and be at rest !" 



158 OIHE DEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

Lamb of Jesus' blood-bought flock, 

Brought again from sin and straying, 
Hear the Shepherd's gentle voice — 
'Tis a true and tender saying : 
" Greater love how can there be 
Than to yield up life for thee '? 
Bought with pang, and tear, and sigh ; 
Turn and live ! — why will ye die ?" 

» 

Broken-hearted, weep no more ! 
Far from consolation flying ; 
He who calls hath felt thy wound, 
Seen thy weeping, heard thy sighing : 
'' Bring thy broken heart to me ; 
Welcome offering it shall be ; 
Streaming tears and bursting sighs 
Mine accepted sacrifice." 

Anomtmous. 



Ef^z ^rtfiel at JPatunce* 

To WEARY hearts, to mourning homes, 
God's meekest Angel gently comes ; 
No power has he to banish pain. 
Or give us back our lost again ; 
And yet, in tenderest love, our dear 
And Heavenly Father sends him here. 



"thy will be doke." 159 

There's quiet in that Angel's glance, 

There's rest in his still countenance ; 

He mocks no grief with idle cheer, 

Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear ; 

But ills and woes he may not cure, 

He kindly learns us to endure. 

Angel of Patience ! sent to calm 
Our feverish brow with cooling balm ; 
To lay the storms of hope and fear, 
And reconcile life's smile and tear ; 
And throbs of wounded pride to still. 
And make our own our Father's will ! 

O thou, who mournest on thy way ! 
With longings for the close of day, 
He walks with thee, that Angel kind. 
And gently whispers : " Be resigned ! 
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell 
The dear Lord ordereth all things well [" 



To do, or not to do — to have. 
Or not to have — I leave to Thee ; 

To be, or not to be, I leave — 
Thy only will be done to me. 

All my requests are lost in one — 

Father, thy only will be done ! 



160 THE EEATH OF A HUSBAND. 

Suffice, that, for the season past 
Myself in things divine I sought, 

For comforts cried with eager haste, 
And murmured when I found them not ; 

I leave it now to thee alone — 

Father, thy only will be done ! 

Thy gifts I clamor for no more, 
Or selfishly thy grace require 

An evil heart to varnish o'er ; 
Jesus, the Giver, I desire, 

After the flesh no longer known ; 

Father, thy only will be done ! 

Welcome alike the crown or cross. 
Trouble I can not ask ; nor peace, 

Nor toil, nor rest, nor gain, nor loss, 
Nor joy, nor grie^ nor pain, nor ease, 

Nor life, nor death ; but ever pray, 

Father, thy only will be done ! 



Speaife to me, # m^ Sabiout! 

Speak to me, O my Saviour ! low and sweet, 
From out the hallelujahs — sweet and low, 
Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee so. 

Who art not missed where faithful hearts entreat. 



SPEAK TO ME, O MY SAVIOUR ! 161 

Speak to me, as to Mary at thy feet ; 

And if no precious gums my hands bestow, 
My tears fall fast, as amber. Let me go 

In reach of thy divinest voice complete. 
With humanest affection, there, in sooth, 

To lose the sense of losing ! as a child, 
Its song-bird being lost, fled evermore. 
Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth ; 

Till sinking on her breast, love-reconciled, 
He sleeps the faster that he wept before. 

Elizabeth Barrstt Browning. 



3§e testis ivom gfs JLulovn. 



What means, my soul, this inward fretful strife 

Betwixt this world and that which is to come ? 

Why on the brink of thine eternal home 

Thus cling'st thou, struggling, to the thread of life ? 

What's life to thee ? Hath it not proved a dream — 

A fitful, feverish, ever-changing sta,te, 

Where love and hope are dashed with fear and hate, 

And joy is but a bubble on the stream ? 

And what is death ? A deep and dreamless sleep, 

Sweet to the wearied frame ; the harbinger 

Of that bright dawn when, far from strife and stir, 

The saints shall their eternal Sabbath keep. 

Bethink thee, then, worn pilgrim, which is best : 

The toilsome journey or the quiet rest ? 

W, L. Alexander. 



^\)t Heatl) of a IPartttt 



BY 



REV. J. B. \7ATERBURY, D.D. 



ortrs of Sttfaiture 



He that saith lie abideth in Him, onglit himself also so to walk, even as he walked. 

1 John 2 ; 6. 

Wherefore let us run with patience the race that is set before us : looking unto 
Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who, for the joy that was set before him, 
endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of tho 
throne of God. For consider him that endured such contradiction of sinners against 
himself, lest ye be wearied and faint in your minds. — Hebrews 12 : 1, 2, 8. 

Because Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example that we should follow his 
steps ; who did no sin, neither was guile found in his mouth ; who, when he was re- 
viled, reviled not again ; when he suffered, he threatened not ; but committed him- 
self to him that judgeth righteously.—l Peter 2 : 21, 22, 23. 

He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth ; he is brought 
as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he opened 
not his mouth. — Isaiah 53 : 7. 

Though He were a son, yet learned he obedience by the things which he suffered ; 
and being made perfect, he became the author of eternal salvation unto all them that 



For it became Him for whom are all things, and by whom are all things, in bring- 
ing many sons unto glory, to make the Captain of their salvation perfect through suf- 
fering. — Hebrews 2 : 10. 

For in that He himself hath suffered being tempted, he is able to succor them that 
are tempted.~HEBREws 2 ; 18. 



f Ijx imtlj d K |ar^nt. 



" When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take 



me up." 



It is tlie expectation that cliildren will survive 
tlieir parents. Tlie reverse seems to do more 
violence to nature ; and is an exception to a law 
of vitality, wMcli necessitates death in the latter 
case. Yet who can contemplate without pain an 
event which separates us from those venerated 
forms whose looks of love were the first conscious 
images pictured on our infant souls ; and whose 
care over us, and interest in us, were neither ex- 
tinguished nor lessened by our ingratitude or our 
follies. 

In childhood, we scarcely realize our indebt- 
edness to parental kindness and care. It seems 
as if the provision made for our wants, and the 
self-denial practised for our benefit, were a mat- 



166 THE DEATH OF A PAREKT, 

ter of course ; and -when tlie parent wonders 
at our unreasonable murmurings, or drops a 
tear over our disobedience and ingratitude, we 
stare, as if unconscious of what it all can mean. 
Selfisliness is apt to rule in tlie young heart,. and 
under its influence we are prone to indulge ex- 
pectations wMcIl are unreasonable, and to exhibit 
an ingratitude that is monstrous. But as time 
rolls on, and experience takes the place of youth- 
ful impulse and emotion, we begin to discern 
more clearly our obligations to parental love, 
and appreciate more correctly the care and self- 
denial which had been practised for our good. 
It takes but a few years to bring the child and 
the parent into close sympathy, and thus, whilst 
filial affection is not lessened, there is combined 
with it the additional element of respect. "We 
mix not long with society ere we learn the hol- 
lowness of its professions, the fickleness of its at- 
tachments, and the selfishness of its aims. Our 
sanguine expectations are disappointed, and we 
revert to home scenes and domestic affections, as 
furnishing a more reliable basis of hope and of 
confidence. Especially are we convinced that 
there is in the whole world of affection nothing 
so enduring, so reliable as the love that beats in 
the parent's heart. 



THE DilATH OF A PAEENT. 167 

How tlien can we look forward to their de- 
mise without feeling tliat in depriving ns of their 
presence and their care, death is inflicting on us 
a most grievous visitation ? 

The child of true affection will watch with no 
ordinary emotions, the signs of increasing decre- 
pitude ; will sigh in his secret bosom to discover 
the traces of age in the hoary locks and the 
wrinkled brow ; and looking upon these admoni- 
tory tokens, will lift the silent prayer, that God 
would long spare him the trial, which eventually 
he knows he must encounter. 

When the time actually arrives in which the sil- 
ver cord — ^now attenuated to a thread — ^must be 
loosed, and the aged form must pass away, oh ! 
how will memory array in one complex group 
the images of tenderness and affection which had 
been accumulating from infancy through a long 
succession of years ! Then will be realized and 
felt the obligations which in childhood could not 
be appreciated ; and the sorrow will be deepened 
by the consideration that the loss is irreparable. 
It is said of one of the kings of England, that, on 
losing an only son and heir almost simultaneous- 
ly with the death of his father, he mourned 
much more grievously over the latter than the 
former. Surprised at this, his courtiers said to 



168 THE DEATH OF A PARENT. 

Mm : " Sire, you seem more inconsolable at the 
loss of your aged father than of your only son 
and heir." '^ True," replied the King ; '' and for 
good reasons. God can give me another son; 
but he can not give me anotheY fatJiery 

But the father and the mother, in the ordinary 
course of nature, must forsake us. The words 
"forsake us," according to Bishop Home, and 
other commentators, are not intended to mark 
any thing like a criminal desertion, but may, and 
probably were intended to, refer to their depar- 
ture at death. The parental care and watchful- 
ness are then withdrawn, and the orphan child- 
ren must look elsewhere for counsel, for sympa- 
thy and for help. 

Where shall they look ? Perhaps they have 
kind relatives who will be guardians to them ; 
and happy will these orphans be if such put 
themselves in the place of a parent. But others 
will have no such human succor ; and what will 
they do ? There is one thing they can do — ^they 
can cast themselves on His care who '' careth for 
them." In the absence of all human help, they 
may still say, using the language just quoted: 
'' When my father and my mother forsake me, 
then the Lord will take me up." 



GREAT AND PRECIOUS PROMISES. 169 



From tlie numerous promises whicli respect a 
state of orphanage, I am led to conclude, that 
God, as a pitiful Father, has a very special regard 
to the wants and necessities of such as are thus 
bereaved. Express provision was made for the 
fatherless under the Levitical economy. "Ye 
shall not afflict any fatherless child.'' In Deuter- 
onomy 10 : 18 : " He doth execute the judgment 
of the fatherless." In Ps. 10 : 14 : " Thou art the 
helper of the fatherless." Jeremiah 49 : 11 : 
^' Leave thy fatherless children ; I will preserve 
them alive." Hosea 14:3: "For in thee the 
fatherless find mercy." It is made also a distinct- 
ive mark of true religion, under the JSTew-Tes- 
tament dispensation, that we " ^dsit the widow 
and the fatherless^ 

In these promises, we recognize a deep sympa- 
thy on the part of God with those inexperienced 
and dependent children whom his providence has 
brought into a condition of orphanage. It is evi- 
dent that whensoever the earthly parent, by 
death, shall forsake them, God, the great parent of 
all, may take them up. Turning then from the 
grave in which the tears of filial affection are 
8 



170 THE DEATH OE A PARENT. 

dropped, and whilst the heart sinks under a sense 
of its desolateness, the bereaved ones can look np 
and say, " Thon art a Father of the fatherless." 
This guardian care of Heaven, expressed in so 
many passages, and confirmed by the usual course 
of providence, has had a very marked effect in 
creating a public sentiment in behalf of orphans^ 
which is a sort of a general guarantee that they 
will some how be cared for. Benevolent hearts 
are all alive to their condition, and where rela- 
tives prove indifferent — as, alas ! in some instan- 
ces, is the case — God will raise up those whose 
kindness and attentions shall more than compen- 
sate for the neglect. But, after all, the great 
point to be kept in view is, that th^se bereaved 
ones should put their trust in God, making him, 
by a voluntary recognition, their Father and 
their Friend. 

The words, "The Lord will take me up," 
seem to imply that God will do for the orphan 
what, from instinctive affection, or from a sense 
of duty, the parents usually are accustomed to do. 
If this be so, a very interesting train of thought 
will be suggested, encouraging hope and impart- 
ing strong consolation. 

" The Lord will take me up," is the language 
of confidence. It argues a degree of trust in the 



GEEAT AKD PRECIOUS PROMISES. 171 

young heart wliicli can hardly be attributed to 
one who has no sense of religion. I imagine it to 
be the utterance of a youth who has enjoyed the 
smiles not only of an earthly father, but who has 
experienced also the light of God's reconciled 
countenance. -He has the spirit of adoption, and 
can without presumption say, '^ Abba, Father." 

What shall we do ? What will now become 
of us? Who will now befriend us, or take an 
interest in us ? are questions which a family of 
bereaved ones would naturally propose, as they 
surveyed the desolate hearth and household ! 
They have lived long enough possibly to discov- 
er that human professions, even when sincere, are 
apt to be superficial — ^that tears which mingle 
with their own are but a momentary gush of sym- 
pathy, and that, in the rough encounters of this 
life, they will have to rely for help more on tJiem- 
selves than on their friends ; and more on God 
than on inan. All this is not only true, but it is 
well perhaps that it is so. The very necessity 
for self-reliance, combined with trust in God, is 
one means of eliciting energies which otherwise 
might have lain dormant ; and of imparting a 
force of character which mio^ht not have been 
developed under less trying circumstances. How 
manv of the noblest characters which have adorn- 



172 THE DEATH OF A PARENT* 

ed tlie annals of the world, have been shaped 
and matured under the pressure of an early 
orj^hanage ! 

I would say to the orphan, Have confidence 
in God. The night which has gathered around 
your early path and obscured so sadly the first 
part of your earthly journey, is not all daikness. 
God will be to you a sun ; and you may hope 
that this darkness will give place to a serene and 
cloudless day. Put your trust in Him who has 
said, I will be a ^' Father of the fatherless." 

The condition of orphanage, which I am con- 
sidering, is that wherein the children are young 
and dependent ; and where in place of the pa- 
rental oversight and care, must be interposed 
necessarily the agency of friends and guardians. 
Other circumstances might be imagined, and not 
unfrequently occur, where the death of parents 
leaves no such solicitude, and orphanage has no 
such shadows thrown upon it. This is the case 
where the parents have lived to a good old age, 
have seen their children settled in life, and are 
ready with Simeon to say : " Now, Lord, lettest 
thou thy servant depart in peace !" I do not say 
there is not grief in this case ; nor that, at any 



THE OKPIIAN'S TRUST. 173 

period or under any circumstances, the deatli of 
parents is not a heavy and heart-rending blow ; 
but that the pang is less severe, and the event 
less calamitous, than when a whole family of de- 
pendent children are made orphans. Yes; the 
loved form of parents in old age, we would gladly 
retain, and endeavor to pay back even to second 
childhood, the debt which our own juvenile ex- 
perience has incurred. And when the moment 
arrives that the pilgrim-staff must be broken, 
and the dim eye closed in death, we would es- 
teem it a sad but grateful privilege to render 
every possible alleviation under an event mourn- 
ful at all times, but in old age inevitable. Far 
different is the scene where a dependent group 
of children surround the dying bed, and by their 
helplessness, give intensity to the pang of death ! 
It is no easy thing, under such circumstances, for 
even a Christian parent to say, " Thy will be done." 
I know of one such scene where the father's 
faith was put to a severe test, as he saw his wife 
and six little children about to be cast upon the 
world, bereft of his care and support. The try- 
ing point with him was, that he must leave these 
orphans and this widow in such a world as this ! 
He thought, however, of God's covenant and 
God's gracious promises. These he studied until 



174 THE DEATH OF A PARENT. 

Ms faith, rose to the needful point, and then call- 
ing them to his bed-side, he deliberately took 
leave of each of them, and commending them to 
God's protection, he said calmly: "Now, I am 
ready to go. I feel assured tbat God will take 
care of my wife and little ones " From that mo- 
ment all was peace until he closed his eyes in 
death. The events proved that his faith was 
well-founded. The group was cared for. The 
Lord took them up : all of them attained to re- 
spectability, and some of them to great influence 
and usefulness in the Churcli and in the world. 

I knew another instance where the father hav- 
ing died, left Ms widow with thirteen children, 
most of them very young ; and soon the mother 
died also. What a group of orphans ! But tkat 
mother was a true saint, and she liad given these 
cMldren to God ; and wken father and mother 
forsook them, the Lord took them up. They 
are now men and women ; most of them with 
flourishing families, and all of them respectable 
whilst quite a number of them are consistent and 
active members of the Churcli of God. Is there 
not good ground to trust in God when the earth- 
ly parent is separated from us by death ? 

If God will be to orphans in the place of the 
departed parent, if he will take them up where 



THE OKPHAN^S TRUST. 175 

the parent left them, and be their father and 
their friend, what more or what better could 
they desire ? It implies that he will care for 
their temporal wants. The parent, by the force 
of instinctive love, labors for the good of his 
children in all respects. Their welfare and hap- 
piness make not only a part of his very life, but 
furnish powerful motives to labor for their sup- 
port. In this respect, " parents lay up for their 
children, rather than children for their parents." 
But when death separates them from their off- 
spring, how are they to get food and clothing % 
" He that heareth the cry of the ravens" will at- 
tend to theirs. A providence that looks after 
the sparrows, and clothes th^ grass of the field, 
will not usually, if ever suffer, ^' the seed of the 
righteous to beg their bread." 

Again, God will care for their spiriimal wants. 
And here the Heavenly Father may do for or- 
phans much better than the earthly father shall 
have done. It is not always that a parent's 
anxiety is expended on the Mgliest good of his 
children. Many think if their children are fed 
and clothed and educated in mere human 
learning the parental obligation is fully dis- 
charged. Not having themselves any deep sense 
of religious obligation, they take no pains to im- 



176 THE DEATH OF A PAKENT. 

plant it in tlie minds of their cliildren, and wlien 
these parents die, tMs anxiety in tlie departing 
hour respects chiefly the dependent state of their 
children in regard to what is seen and temporal. 
But God may have something better in reserve 
for them. He may overrule this very orphanage, 
and make what is considered one of the greatest 
of earthly calamities, a means of everlasting good 
to the soul. The indulgence and the worldly train- 
ing which might have issued in the ruin of its 
eternal state, may be counteracted by an afflic- 
tion which makes personal effort obligatory, and 
personal self-denial a matter of necessity. The 
orphan may get into an atmosphere of healthful 
moral influences, so that by losing his earthly fa- 
ther, he may actually gain a place in the love of 
his heavenly Father. 

Very different, however, are the feelings of 
pious parents who are called to leave their lit- 
tle ones behind them in a world like this. Their 
principal anxiety is not as to whether bread will 
be given to them, but it respects their exposed- 
ness to temptation, their spiritual necessities, and 
the possibility that they may, even amid great 
worldly prosperity, lose their immortal souls. 
Who will look after these precious interests ? is the 
inquiry of the dying parent. We answer, '' God 



THE OEPHAN^S TRUST. 177 

will take them np." We might put the ques- 
tion to this anxious dying parent, and say : What 
would you do for these children if you were to 
live and train them ? You would, of course, 
teach them what is right and forbid them what 
is wrong. You would inculcate God's law, and 
hold up continually the duties which the Gospel 
enjoins. Your watchful eye would be upon 
them, and your beating, anxious heart would be 
lifted up to Heaven continually in their behalf. 
All this you would do and feel ; but still, unless 
God blessed your efforts and answered your 
prayers, those efforts and those prayers would be 
in vain. Now, God, in separating you from 
them by death, and suspending a direct parental 
influence, seems to say — actually does say — ^by 
this very providence, '^ Leave thy fatherless child- 
ren i;o me." " I will now take them up." " Their 
spiritual iaterests, no less than their temporal 
well-beiag, you may trust to my hands. Having 
been your covenant God and father, why can 
you not trust me to be also theirs f for the pro- 
mise is to your children as well as to you." If we 
compare the spiritual conditions of orphans with 
that of those whose parents still live, we shall find, 
I apprehend, quite as many instances of hopeful 
conversion in the one case as in the other. The 
8^ 



178 THE DEATH OF A PARENT. 

orphan, from tlie very nature of tlie circnmstances, 
is led to feel his dependence on an all-controlling 
providence. The eye of the earthly parent be- 
ing closed in death, there conies the thought of 
God's presence and God's guardian care, prompt, 
ing the prayer, '' My Father, be thou the guide 
of my youth." 



There is, moreover, the influence which death 
imparts to parental counsels and parental exam- 
ple, over and above what is felt while the parent 
is present. "Who does not know, and what 
orphan has not realized the fact, that memory 
and conscience suggest a thousand things over 
the grave of the venerated one, which occurred 
not, or which made but little impression, whilst 
that parent was living ? 

There is a tenderness of feeling closely allied 
to moral exercises and religious emotions, which 
stirs in the soul and moistens in the eye, whilst 
we think of the love that blessed us, the patience 
that bore with us, and the wisdom that instructed 
us. Not only do the looks of remembered affec- 
tion visit our sleeping and waking thoughts, and 
paint themselves on the memory and imagination ; 



BEING DEAD THEY YET SPEAK. 179 

hnt the counsels and warnings whicli once fell 
almost upon heedless ears, now recur with vivid- 
ness ; whispering as with angel voice, in the con- 
science, and leaving there a sense of obhgation, 
which it were filial impiety to disregard. May 
not God make use of such feelings m leading the 
soul to those religious considerations, and to that 
conviction of sin, so necessary a preliminary to 
the acceptance of salvation ? I have no doubt 
that He often does ; and if the parent is permit- 
ted to see such a result growing out of the very 
calamity which seemed so distressful ; if in that 
world of spirits, he is made acquainted with it — 
as there can be little reason to doubt he is — ^how 
will he extol, in his praises, the grace of God ; 
and feel more fully than he ever felt on earth, 
that ''behind a frowning providence, God may 
hide a smiling face." 

Who will protect the orphans ? Is that the 
anxiety of him who leaves them, and of them 
who are left ? The answer again is : The same 
who has promised to provide for them. The 
parent, if living^ can not ward off calamity from 
his dear ones. Sickness invades the loved circle ; 
and death makes breach after breach, which no 
love nor care nor watchfulness can foresee and 
prevent. The drowned or mangled body is 



180 THE DEATH OF A PAEENT. 

broiiglit and laid at tlie feet of tlie horror-stricken 
parents ; and even moral dangers, worse than 
exposures to death ; dangers whicli threaten the 
character and the soul; even these, parental 
watchfulness can not always avert. After all, 
the living parent must take shelter under the 
wing of a protecting Providence ; and lay hold, 
by prayer, of the promised protection of heaven. 
But is not that same Providence, with ever-watch- 
ful eye, pledged, as it were, to overlook and 
guard the orphans when he takes out of sight the 
natural guardian ; and thus renders his almighty 
care, so to speak, the more needful ? '^ I have 
now no earthly parent," may the orphan say, ^'to 
look after me ; but have I not God to take me 
up and carry me along the path of life ? Beset 
as it is with dangers, and exposed at every step 
as I am to temptations, who so able as He to 
point out those dangers, to warn me against 
them ; or who can so effectually neutralize the 
power of the tempter, and make a way for my 
escape ? Can He not cause his angels to encamp 
around me, and peradventure commission even 
the glorified spirit of my departed parent, to act 
unseen, as a spiritual body-guard around my 
exposed career ?" 



GONE, BUT NOT LOST. 181 



€Sfoue, hut not 3lO0t. 

In the death of our friends, the idea, I have 
no doubt, is too prominent that they are for ever 
lost to us — ^that a sort of eternal separation has 
taken place — ^that never more shall their sym- 
pathies be felt, or their presence be enjoyed ; and 
this may be true under certain circumstances ; 
but on these painful circumstances we do not 
wish at present to dwell. It is not so, however, 
if the hopes of a Christian have been realized, 
and the life of faith has been enjoyed. We sup- 
pose the parents to have departed under these 
hopeful circumstances ; to have slept in Jesus ; 
and we indulge the expectation also, that the 
faith which dwelt in them may, through their 
prayers and their counsels, dwell in their surviv- 
ing children ; in which case, death is only a tem- 
porary separation, to be followed by a reunion 
in a region where blessed recognitions will take 
place, but where "adieus and farewells are a 
sound unknown." 

The sacred writers speak of death as a sleep. 
It is not, in their view, an extinction, only a tem- 
porary repose — a sort of recuperative process, by 
which, according to tlie beautiful analogy, even 



182 THE DEATH OF A PAEENT. 

the body will put on new vigor, and sliine in a 
lustre all divine. And tlie soul ! Oli ! tliat will 
be enjoying its true, proper life ; expanding its 
wings in the celestial atmosphere, or using them 
on errands to the loved pilgrims left behind. 
" I have a desire to depart and to be with Christ." 
What means the Apostle by this aspiration? 
Surely death is not an extinction of the being — 
not even a suspension of the active powers of the 
soul. The body sleeps, but the soul awakes in 
the image and the likeness of God. The last 
pulsation 

" Unbinds its chains breaks up its cell, 
And gives it with its God to dwell." 

Such are the views which we ought to take of 
the departure of Christian friends. Eeligion for- 
bids not the tear to flow; nor rebukes the rising 
sigh. By his own example, Jesus our Lord has 
sanctified grief. The tears which dropped at the 
grave of Lazarus were a sacred tribute to human- 
ity. But sorrow is not the only emotion which 
love should beget at the graves of the departed. 
Hope should mingle her bright songs and rainbow 
hues with the tears we shed ; and we should lis- 
ten, as we hear our Lord saying on the occasion 
alluded to, " Thy brother shall rise again." Yes, 
the Christian shall rise again. Death shall yield 



WORDS OF COMFOET. 183 

up its prey, and the grave give back its treasured 
dust ; and tlie song shall be, from welcoming an- 
gels and rising saints : " O Death ! where is thy 
sting ? O Grave ! where is thy victory ?" 



CS^ortrs of Comforts 

There is, therefore, every reason to be com- 
forted in view of the death of those who have 
walked with God on earth. K a beloved parent 
has left you, and joined that ''part of the host 
which has crossed the flood," we may say to you : 
" Be comforted ; God will take you up !" Have 
confidence in him ! The stroke which has severed 
you from the earthly parent should drive you 
to take refuge in the bosom of your Heavenly 
Parent. Do you feel lonely now ? Do you miss 
the sympathy of the loved sire or matron ? Re- 
member God offers you His sympathy and suc- 
cor. Do you ask. Where now shall I look for 
counsel? Who will guide my inexperienced 
footsteps ? The answer comes from the sacred 
oracles : " I will guide thee by my counsel ;" " I 
will lead thee in paths which thou hast not 
known. I will make darkness light before thee, 
and crooked things straight. These things will I 
do unto thee, and not forsake thee." '' In all thy 



184 THE DEATH OF A PARENT. 

ways acknowledge me, and I will direct tliy 
paths." Ah. ! but my home is desolate ; the pro- 
tecting wing of parental care is no more over 
me ! How can I meet the perils and temptations 
which everywhere beset the path of life ? Again 
I hear a voice saying : " I will be a Father of the 
fatherless." "My providence is over all, and 
through all, and in all. My eye is upon thee, 
and my unseen arm will be around thee ; and 
if need be, I will give my angels charge over 
thee to keep thee ; lest at any time thou dash 
thy foot against a stone," "Where canst thou go, 
where I am not ? " If thou takest the wings of 
the morning, and dwellest in the uttermost parts 
of the sea, even there shall my hand lead thee, 
and my right hand shall hold thee." 

Dwell, therefore, " in the secret places of the 
Most High, and abide under the shadow of the 
Almighty." Say of the Lord : " He is my refuge 
and my fortress, my God ; in him will I trust." 
" Call upon him, and he will answer thee ; He 
will be with thee in trouble ; He will deliver 
thee and honor thee. With long life will he 
satisfy thee, and show thee his salvation^' 

Thus making God thy refuge, and walking in 
his ways, thou shalt escape a thousand e\dls to 
which otherwise thou wouldst be exposed, enjoy 



WORDS OF COMFORT. 185 

a peace wliicli on no other conditions could be 
realized ; and sustain tlie trials of life witli a 
patience wMcli notliing else could impart. And 
when tlie end sliall come ; when thy feet shall 
touch the brink of the land of shadows, and the 
great question is, shall the gate of death open 
to the gates of glory ? shall I go up to be with the 
loved ones who have entered within the vail? 
it will be no small consolation to be able to say : 
"Yes, I am goiug to join them; to enjoy once 
more an intercourse with them which had been 
interrupted in sorrow, but which is now to be 
renewed and perpetuated amid the bliss of 
heaven !" 



PotmB. 



There is a world of death beneath our feet j 
There is a world of life above our heads : 
Here ruins, graves, dry bones, fallen blossoms meet ; 
There God, in Hght and air, his glory spreads. 



Bend not thy light-desiring eyes below — 
There thy own shadow waits upon thee ever; 

But raise thy looks to heaven, and lo 1 
The shadeless sun rewards thy weak endeavor. 

Who sees the dark, is dark ; but turn towards the light, 

And thou becom'st like that which fills thy sight. 



fo^iiiB on tlje gratf] of a f itmtt. 



Oh ! that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see — 
The same, that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
' Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !' 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize. 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic chain 
To quench it) here shines on me till the same. 

Taithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long, 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly as the precept were her own : 
And while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief-— 



190 THE DEATH OF A PARENT. 

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 

A momentary dream that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead, 
Say wast thou conscious of the tears I shed '? 
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss : 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss. 
Ah! that maternal smile ! It answers — yes. 
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
. And, turning from my nursery-window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such ? — It was. Where thou art gone, 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
What ardently I wished I long believed, 
And disappointed still, was still deceived. 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
I learned at last submission to my lot ; 
But though I less deplore thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more ; 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor 5 
And where the gardener Eobin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way, 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velv^et capped. 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER^S PICTURE. 191 

'Tis now become a history little known, 

That once we called the pastoral house our own. 

Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, 

That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. 

Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 

A thousand other themes less deeply traced : 

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; 

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home. 

The biscuit or confectionery plum ; 

The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed 

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone, and glowed ; 

All this, and more endearing still than all, 

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall — 

Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, 

That humor interposed too often makes ; 

All this still legible in memory's page, 

And still to be so to my latest age. 

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 

Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; 

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere — 

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, 
When playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 
The violet, the pink, and' jessamine, 
I pricked them into paper with a pin, 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,) 
Could those few pleasant days again appear. 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? 
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 



192 THE DEATH OF A PAREKT. 

But no — what here we call our life is such 
So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) 
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle. 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on the flood, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore, 
' Where tempests never beat nor billows roar ;' 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain the rest, 
Always from port withheld, always distressed ; 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tost. 
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost. 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet oh ! the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! 
.That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents passed into the skies. 
And now farewell ! Time unrevoked has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; 



A MINISTEEING ANGEL. 193 

To have renewed the joys that once were mine. 
Without the sin of violating thine : 
And while the wings of fancy still are free, 
And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 

COWPER. 



Orphan, tnou most sorely stricken 

Of the mourners thronging earth. 
Clouds half-veil thy brightest sunshine, 

Sadness mingles w^ith thy mirth. 
Yet although that gentle bosom. 

Which has pillowed oft thy head, 
Now is cold, thy mother's spirit 

Can not rest among the dead. 
Still her watchful eye is o'er thee 

Through the day, and still at night 
Hers the eye that guards thy slumber, 
* Making thy young dreams so bright. 
Oh ! the friends, the friends, we've cherished, 

How we weep to see them die ! 
All unthinking they're the angels 

That will guide us to the sky ! 

Emily Judson. 

9 



194 THE DEATH OF A PABENT. 



How blest is our mother, bereft 

Of all that could burden her mind ! 
How easy the soul that has left. 

This wearisome body behind ; 
Of evil incapable thou 

Whose relics with envy I see ; 
No longer in misery now. 

No longer a sinner like me. 

This.earth is affected no more 

With sickness, or shaken with pain 
The war in the members is o'er, 

And never shall vex her again. 
No anger henceforward, or shame. 

Shall redden this innocent clay ; 
Extinct is the animal flame. 

And passion is vanished away. 

This languishing head is at rest, 

Its thinking and aching are o'er ; 
This quiet, immovable breast 

Is heaved by affliction no more ; 
This heart is no longer the seat 

Of trouble and torturing pain ; 
It ceases to flutter and beat, 

It never shall flutter again. 



THE HEALING- HAND. 195 

The lids she so seldom could close, 

By sorrow forbidden to sleep, 
Sealed up in their mortal repose, 

Have strangely forgotten to weep : 
The fountains can yield no supplies. 

These hollows from water are free ; 
The tears are all wiped from these eyes, 

And evil they never shall see. 

0. Wesley. 



As when some fair temple is o'erthrown 

By earthquake, or by hostile hand laid waste, 

At first it lies, stone rudely rent from stone 
A confiised, ruinous heap, and all defaced ; 

Yet visit that fallen ruin by and by. 

And what a hand of healing has been there, 

How sweetly do the placid sunbeams lie 

On the green sward which all the place doth wear. 

And what rich odors from the flowers are borne — 
From flowers and flowering weeds, which even within 

The rents and fissures of those walls forlorn 

Have made their home, yea thence their sustenance win ! 



196 THE DEATH 0$^ A PAKENT. 

So Time no less has gentle skill to heal, 

When our fair hopes have fallen, our earth-built towers^ 
How busy wreck and ruin to conceal 

With a new overgrowth of leaves and floorers. 

Nor time alone — a better hand is here. 

Where it has wounded, watching to upbind ; 

Which when it takes away in love severe. 
Doth some austerer blessing leave behind. 

Oh ! higher gifts has brought this mournful Time, 
Than all those years which did so smoothly run ; 

For what if they, life's flower and golden prime, 
Had something served to knit our hearts in one ; 

Yet doth that all seem little now, compared 
With our brief fellowship in tears and pain — 

To share the things which we have newly shared, 
This makes a firmer bond, a holier chain ; 

To have together held that aching head, 
To have together heard that piteous moau, 

To have together knelt beside that bed. 

When life was flitting, and when life had flown ; 

And to have one of ours, whose ashes sleep 

Where the great church its solemn shadow flings ; 

Oh ! love has now its roots that stretch more deep, 
That strike and stretch beneath the grave of things. 



*^ WHOSOEVER SHALL CONFESS ME." 197 

Oh ! more than this, yet holier bonds there are, 

For we his spirit shall to ours feel nigh, 
And know he lives, whenever we in prayer 

Hold with heaven's saintly throng communion high. 

Then wherefore more ? — or wherefore this to thee, 

A faithful suppliant at that inner shrine. 
At which who kneel, to them 'tis given to see 

How pain and grief and anguish are divine 1 



O Jesus ! Lord — ^the way, the truth. 

The life, the crown of all 
Who here on earth confess thy name ; 

Oh ! hear us when we call. 

"We bring to mind, with grateful joy 

Thy servants, who of old 
Withstood the snares of earth and hell, 

And now thy face behold. • 

Who sought on earth the joys of prayer. 

And that communion knew, 
Which saints and angels share above 

With those who seek it too. 



198 THE DEATH OF A PARENT. 

Vouchsafe us, Lord, we pray thee now, 

To us it may be given 
Like them to live and die in thee, 

And with them rise to heaven. 



Shadows are faithless, and the rocks are false ; 
No trust in brass, no trust in marble walls ; 
Poor cots are even as safe as princes' halls. 

Great God ! there is no safety here below ; 
Thou art my fortress. Thou that seem'st my foe, 
'Tis thou that strik'st the stroke must guard the blow. 

Thou art my God, by thee I fall or stand ; 
Thy grace hath given me courage to withstand 
All tortures, but my conscience, and thy hand. 

I know thy justice is thyself; I know, 
Just God, thy very self is mercy too ; 
If not to thee, where, whither shall I go ? 

Then work thy will ; if passion bid me flee, 
My reason shall obey ; my wings shall be 
Stretched out no further than from Thee to Thee. 



THE remissio:n- of sins. 199 



STije Henttsston of Sins. 

While thine avenging arrows, Lord, 

Encompass us around. 
What hand but that which caused the smart 

Can cure the deadly wound 1 

Depart, vain world, for how canst thou 

Relieve the festering sore ? 
Thy comfort is but vanity, 

And irritates the more. 

We tremble, Lord, beneath thy rod, 

But we do not despair ; 
We see thy good Physician's hand 

In all he bids us bear. 

But oh ! so fierce the contest burns. 

Good Lord, no more delay ; 
Oh ! yield not to their deadly foes 

Thy people for a prey. 

Our prayer is heard ; our foes depart, 
And we once more take breath : 

Thy death, O Christ ! relieves the soul 
From all its fears of Death. 

All praise and glory be ascribed 

To God who reigns above ; 
Who scourges those whom He receives, 

And chastens them in love. 



200 THE DEATH OF A PARENT. 

" The heart is restless till it rests in Thee." 

Disquieted, and desolate and lone, 

My heart within me sinks, 
And filled with bitterness in secret known, 

The cup of trembling drinks : 
Oh ! where, when in mute agony it bends. 
Are love and sympathy of human friends 1 

The sorrows of my spirit are enlarged, 

My eyes are full of tears ; 
The grief with which my soul is over-charged 

Excites strange doubts and fears : 
Alas ! I seek, I call, in vain, in vain, 
On earthly friendship to relieve my pain ! 

I faint and fall because the way is dark. 
That I through life must tread ; 

Is there no counsellor within the Ark 
By whom I can be led 1 

Is there no loving voice to whisper rest. 

Unto the heavy-laden and oppressed ? 

No ! human sympathy is all too weak. 

To satisfy my heart ; 
And earthly accents have not learned to speak 

Words that can peace impart : 
Thy best support, poor mortality ! 
Would fail to stem the tears of misery. 



SLEEPING IN JESUS. 201 

Oft dost Thou, Jesus, lest from thee we stray, 

Withdraw the helping hand 
Which soothed our wounds, and wiped our tears away, 

That so our souls may stand 
Nearer thy cross, and daily feel and see, 
" The heart is restless till it rests in Thee ! " 



5blee|)infl in S^^ub. 



Asleep in Jesus ! blessed sleep ! 
From which none ever makes to weep ; 
A calm and undisturbed repose 
Unbroken by the last of foes. 

Asleep in Jesus ! oh ! how sweet, 
To be for such a slumber meet ; 
With holy confidence to sing 
That Death has lost his venomed sting. 

Asleep in Jesus ! peaceful rest 
Whose waking is supremely blest ; 
No fear, no woe, shall dim that hour 
That manifests a Saviour's power. 

Asleep in Jesus ! oh ! for me 
May such a blissful refuge be ! 
Securely shall my ashes lie, 
Waiting the summons from on high, 
9* 



202 THE DEATH OF A PARENT. 

Asleep in Jesus ! time nor space 
Debars this precious " hiding-place :" 
On Indian plains, on Lapland snows, 
Believers find the same repose. 

Asleep in Jesus ! far from thee 
Thy kindred and their graves may be ; 
But thine is still a blessed sleep, 
From which none ever wakes to weep. 

Mes. Mackay. 



K Clins to STJee. 

What though the world deceitful prove. 
And earthly friends and joys remove ; 
With patient, uncomplaining love 

Still would I cling to Thee ! 

Oft when I seem to tread alone 

Some barren waste with thorns o'er grown, 

Thy voice of love, in tenderest tone 

Whispers, " Still cling to ME !" 

Though faith and hope awhile be tried, 
I ask not, need not, aught beside : 
How safe, how calm, how satisfied. 

The souls that cling to thee ! 



I CLDsTG TO THEE. 203 

They fear not Satan or the grave, 
They feel thee near, and strong to save, 
Nor fear to cross e'en Jordan's wave, 

Because they cling to Thee ! 

Blest is my lot, whate'er befall : 
What can disturb me, what appal, 
Whilst as my Eock, my Strength, my All, 
Saviour, I cling to thee ? 



Perhaps an erring wisli I knew 

To read my future fate ; 
And Thou wouldst say : " Thy days are few, 

And vain thy best estate !" 

Perhaps Thy glory seemed my choice, 

"Whilst I secured my own ; 
And thus my kind Eeprover's voice 

Tells me he works alone I 

Oh ! silence Thou this murmuring will, 

Nor bid thy rough wind stay, 
Till with a furnace hotter still 

My dross is purged away I 



€l)e Wtail) 0f a JTrkttir. 



BY 



REV. CLEMENT M. BUTLER, D.D. 



orlrs of Striajturt 



Therefoeb, my brethren, dearly beloved, and longed for, stand fast in the Lord ; re- 
joicing in hope, patient in tribulation, continuing instant in prayer. — ^Philepians 4 ; 1 ; 
EoMANS 12 : 12. 

There hath no temptation taken you, but such as is common to man ; but God is 
faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able ; but will with 
the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it — 1 Corin- 
thians 10 : 13. 

The Lord knoweth how to deliver the godly out of temptations, and to reserve the 
unjust unto the day of judgment, to be punished.— 2 Petee 2 : 9. 

Be patient, therefore, brethren, unto the coming of the Lord. Behold the husband- 
man waiteth for the precious fruit of the earth, and hath long patience for it, until ho 
receive the early and latter rain. Be ye also patient ; stablish your hearts ; for the 
coming of the Lord draweth nigh. — James 5 : 7, 8. 

Take, my brethren, the prophets, who have spoken in the name of the Lord, for an 
example of suffering affliction, and of patience. Behold wo count them happy which 
endure. Ye have heard of the patience of Job, and have seen the end of the Lord ; 
that the Lord is very pitiful and of tender mercy. — James 5 : 10, 11. 

Wherefore be not slothful, but followers of them who through faith and patience 
inherit the promises.— Hebrews 6 : 12. 

Some were tortured, not accepting deliverance ; that they might obtain a bettor 
resurrection : and others had trial of cruel mockings and scourgings, yea, moreover of 
bonds and imprisonment. They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, 
were slain with the sword: they wandered about in sheep-skins, and goat-skins, being 
destitute, afflicted, tormented ; (of whom the world was not worthy :) they wandered 
in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth. And theso all, having 
obtained a good report through faith, received not the promise : God ha\ing provided 
some better thing for us, that they without us should not be made perfect. — Hebrews 
11 : 35-40. 




mil} of a iixim^. 



" It is a mere and miserable solitude to want 
true friends, without wMcL. the world is but a 
wilderness," says the great Lord Bacon. Sound- 
ing the praises of friendship, he declares : " The 
parable of Pythagoras is dark but true — JBJat not 
the heart. Certainly, if a man would give it a 
hard phrase, those that want friends to open 
themselves to are cannibals of their own hearts ; 
but one thing is most admirable, which is, that 
this communicating of a man's self to his friends 
worketh two contrary effects ; for it redoiibleth 
joys^ cmd cutteth griefs in halfs^ 

Yet, highly as the great philosopher esteemed 
true friendship, he was compelled to confess that 
it was rare. " There is little friendship in the 



208 THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

world," he declares ; " and least of all between 
equals." The poet echoes tlie sentiment : 

" And what is friendship but a name ; 
A charm that hills to sleep ; 
A shade that follows wealth or fame, 
And leaves the wretch to weep ?" 

The sweet Psalmist of Israel joins in its praises, 
bnt is not compelled, with, the philosopher and 
the poet, to monrn over its fleetness and its nn- 
reality. In his lamentation over his departed 
friend Jonathan, whose soul was knit with his 
soul, he sings, with a sadly-sweet remembrance 
of the past, " Very pleasant hast thou been to 
me, my brother Jonathan. Thy love to me was 
wonderful, passing the love of woman." There 
was an element in this friendship, which was 
wanting in that over whose infrequency and in- 
sincerity the philosopher moralized and the poet 
sung. The hand that knit their heart-strings was 
divine ; and it bound them together into a beau- 
tiful and inseparable oneness, by the imperishable 
ties of holy and heavenly love. 

Such was the friendship of Jonathan and 
David. It has become proverbial for its truth- 
fulness and steadiness and warmth. It constitutes 
a beautiful model of Christian friendship. We 
will contemplate the subject of the love and loss 



CHRISTIAXS LOVE EACH OTHER IK THE LORD. 209 

of friends^ in connection witL. tlie history of the 
friendship of the shepherd's son and the heir of 
the throne of Israel. 



€:Srfstians lobe eaci) otjer in tje Slotlr* 

I. The friendship of Christians mnst rest on a 
religious basis. It mnst find its nniting principle 
in the mutual love of God, and the mutual par- 
ticipation of the grace of Jesus. Jonathan 
strengthened the hand of David '' in God." He 
loved him from no selfish motive. It must have 
been religious principle alone that could have 
enabled Jonathan, the brave, capable, and ac- 
complished heir of a throne, not only in accord- 
ance with the obviously-manifested will of God, 
to relinquish his own claim to a shepherd boy, 
but also to take his preferred and praised rival 
to his heart. In doing this, he rose above 
nature. He acquiesced in the will of God. He 
gladly threw himself into the plans of God. 
He preferred God's will to the gratification of 
his own selfishness and ambition. He loved him 
who was loved of God. And such, in their prin- 
ciple. Christian friendships always are. The 
heart of a child of God is given, first and 



210 THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

supremely, to Mm. It can love tliat only wLicli 
bears Ms image. It will love it " in tlie Lord." 
Loving not tlie world, nor tlie things of the 
world, so far as they are opposite to or separated 
from God, how can it love an nnholy heart, wMch 
is the world — a microcosm in wMch all enmities 
against God are gathered ? 



€:j)ristian JFritntisf)i|) Iroes not Xre|)eittr an Natural '^mnxtizH. 

II. Hence this Christian friendship does not de- 
pend for its existence on the affinities of natural 
character. It is found in those who resemble, and 
those who differ from each other in natural traits. 
Christian friends " are taught of God to love one 
another." It is the love which " is of God!!^ with 
which they love. It is the love of St. John for 
Gains, whom he '' loved in the truth." Thus a 
fruit of the Holy Spirit, and a love in the truth, 
and in God, it rises above natural affection, and 
lays hold of that in each other which is above 
nature, and which, derived from God, is alike in 
all. It is the superinduced loveliness which they 
possess who are made " partakers of the divine 
nature," which wins their affections, and which 
gives new attractiveness to the charms, and takes 



€HKISTIAN FRIENDSHIP. 211 

away repulsiveness from the deformities, of na- 
tural character. Hence that strange phenomenon 
to the children of the world — ^the cordial, recipro- 
cated, equal affection of those who, utterly unlike 
in position, education, refinement, manners, cul- 
ture, habits, and associations, are yet united by 
ties higher and purer, and by a more essential 
similarity of soul, amidst all their accidental and 
temporary differences, than can obtain in the 
closest resemblances and congenialities of unre- 
newed humanity. Hence that intimate, warm, 
and enduring affection, which frequently exists 
between those who widely differ in temperament, 
tastes, gifts, and occupations. Hence that still 
closer and more beautiful friendship^ in which 
the affinities of natural character are strengthened 
and elevated by the grace of God, and by the 
mutual love of the truth and of the Saviour. 
This is the great solvent — the grace of God — 
which reduces dissimilar souls into sameness ; and 
this is the affinity — the mutual love of Christ 
and God — which blends them into one. These 
mighty, transforming, assimilating agencies it is, 
which bind Paul, the lofty Apostle, in brotherly 
affection to Onesimus, the humble slave. These 
it is which create and sustain the beautiful friend- 
ship of Jonathan and David. It is friendship 



212 THE DEATH OF A FEIEND. 

whicli, not insensible of mntnal faults, rejoices in 
those graces of tlic Spirit wMch are the begin- 
nings of spiritual loveliness, which, shall be per- 
fect in heaven and charm the angels. Exacting 
human friendship cries out : " I do not love thy 
faults ;" and wounded human friendship retorts : 
" A friend would not have seen them ;" but 
Christian friends can see them in each other 
with undiminished affection ; and not unfrequent- 
ly their sins and weaknesses are the occasions of 
the most touching and winning exhibitions of re- 
pentance, humility, self-denial, and magnanimity. 
Their strength is made perfect in weakness; 
their holiness is the contrast of their sin ; their 
supernatural graciousness and excellence shows 
brightest on the dark back-ground of natural 
depravity. Holy friendship is the blending of 
higher affinities than those of mere human 
affection. 



III. In such friendship there is a warmth and 
steadiness and fidelity all its own. This was illus- 
trated in the love of Jonathan and David. When 
Saul envied and persecuted and would have slain 
David, '^ Jonathan's soul was knit to his souL'' 



CHRISTIAN FRIENDSHIP IS WARM AND TRUE. 213 

How toucliing was the affection and fidelity of 
Jonathan for David, at the time when he went 
forth as an outlaw, wandering '' like a partridge 
in the mountains," and hunted by the emissaries 
of Saul ! It is an affection which is deepened 
by adversity. In a stolen interview, in a lonely 
wood, Jonathan announced to David that he 
must flee ; and then, '' kissing one another and 
weeping one with another, until David exceeded^l^ 
he said to his banished friend : " Go in peace, 
forasmuch as we have sworn, both of us in the 
Lord, saying, the Lord be between me and thee, 
and between my seed and thy seed for ever.'' 
Faithful friend ! The lonely wood shall witness 
thy affection to be no less true to David, the 
hunted exile of the desert, than to David the 
conqueror of the Philistine, the theme of the 
triumphal songs of Jewish maidens, and the hope 
of Israel and Judah, All that is told of that 
interview is the simple but expressive statement, 
that ''he strengthened him in God." Blessed 
oflice of sanctified affection, to strengthen the 
hand and the heart in God ! How Jonathan 
strengthened David's heart; what words of 
promise or what providences of mercy he ad- 
duced ; what instances of the faithfulness of 
Israel's God he brought from the sacred records; 



214 THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

what satisfying and clieering words of unalter- 
able personal affection lie poured into the thirsty 
heart of the stricken outcast ; what speech of 
blessedness beyond the grave, where no tyrants 
can annoy, and no disasters separate ; what strong 
and heart-bracing words they were, we know 
not. We only know, that that lonely wood was 
witness of one of the most striking examples ever 
given of the elevation, the magnanimity, and the 
fidelity of religious friendship. It is fit that a 
friend, as faithful and noble as the world ever 
knew, should be praised in strains of affectionate 
eulogy as tender and beautiful as the world 
ever heard : '' O Jonathan ! thou wast slain in thy 
high places ! I am distressed for thee, my 
brother Jonathan. Very pleasant hast thou been 
to me. Thy love to me was wonderful, passing 
the love of woman " 



IV. There is another characteristic of religious 
friendship, which gives it a peculiar elevation, 
and makes it, in some respects, more blessed 
than even the sanctified affection of those who 
are united by the ties of blood and of close 



ELEVATION OF HOLY FEIENDSHIP. 215 

relationsliip. In the latter case, tlie closeness and 
continuance of the contact of heart with heart, 
frequently produce chafing and irritation. The 
intimacies of domestic life in family relations, 
which affection craves and rejoices in, furnish 
constant occasions in which the mutual infirmities, 
selfishnesses, peculiarities, and sins of those who 
are nearest and dearest, come in conflict, and 
wound and disturb each other, interrupt the cur- 
rent of their affection, darken their enjoyment, 
and accumulate memories of sorrow and self- 
reproach. They not only Tcnow^ but they are 
made practically to suffer from each other's 
infirmities and faults. Their native antagonisms 
and uncongenialities of character can not lie 
latent, but are constantly evolved by the duties 
and the incidents of daily and domestic life. 
Now, in this respect. Christian friends are in a 
position more favorable to uninterrupted and 
peaceful affection, than Christian relatives. They 
are near enough to warm each other, but not to 
chafe. They are near enough to know, without 
often or greatly suffering from, each other's 
infirmities of temper. They see in each other 
that which is purest, highest, and most spiritual, 
apart, in great measure, from that which belongs 
to the lower nature. Hence it is that Christian 



216 THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

friendsliips have a clLarm and an elevation all 
their own. They are not stale from custom. 
They have not the dullness which arises from 
monotony. They do not subside into the indif- 
ference which familiarity and constant presence 
are apt to engender. They do not exhaust and 
weary the social feelings. They are quickened 
and renewed and deepened by meetings and 
partings. If they have not that strong, instinct- 
ive, close-cleaving love which blood-relationships, 
by the very constitution of our nature, kindle, 
they have a delicacy and respectfulness and pur- 
ity, and a bond of union exclusively of the heart 
and soul, which kindred ties can not possess. 
"We know not but this feeling was in the heart 
of David, when, eulogizing the affection of his 
departed friend, he declared that it was " won- 
derful," '' passing the love of woman." The love 
of woman — of the maiden for her lover, the wife 
for her husband, the mother for her children — ^is 
the strongest, richest, and most beautiful of aU 
human affections ; their model and their highest 
measure ; the standard with which we compare 
all other, and to which we make all other approx- 
imate when we praise it as deep and true and 
warm. Now, as this love is usually exhibited 
and praised as affianced or wedded or maternal 



ELEVATION OF HOLY FRIENDSHIP. 217 

love, we know not in what respect David could 
have ventured to represent the love of Jonathan 
as passing that of woman, unless we conceive 
him to have had that idea of religious friendship 
which we have endeavored to unfold ; or unless 
we unwarrantably suppose the Prophet-Poet, 
who '' spake as he was moved by the Holy 
Ghost," to have indulged in the conceits and 
exaggerations of human fancy. Love " passing 
that of woman" in warmth and strength of fidel- 
ity, the whole world rises up to testify that there 
can not be! It could surpass it only in that 
peculiar elevation and that exclusively soul- 
union, tvJiich is possible alone in tlie absence of 
the ties of kindred and of blood. In this respect 
it is wonderful, peculiar, and alone — ^passing the 
love of woman — ^in that it is divested of the ele- 
ment of the sensitive and instinctive affection of 
kindred and of blood. It is the communion of 
hearts and minds and souls. It is not the inter- 
twining of the roots of the vine under ground, 
which not unfrequently is followed by the wide 
divergence of the branches ; but it is the meet- 
ing of the branches as they stretch upward, and 
the mutual interclasping of a thousand delicate 
tendrils. '' Better is a neighbor that is near than 
a brother that is far off." 
10 



218 THE DEATH OF A FBIEND. 



Great and clieering are the blessings wMcli 
are connected witli Christian friendship. 



I. It furnishes rich satisfaction to the best 
affections of onr hearts. There is joy in love. 
" Rejoicing in love," is an expression which all 
hnman and angelic hearts understand. Love is 
not only the fulfilling of the law : but it is the 
perfection and the best joy of onr nature. Our 
happiness depends on our affections. It is not 
on intellect, or genius, or success, or fame, that 
happiness reposes, but upon the right love of 
that which is worthy to be loved. Happiness is 
the outgrowth, the flowering of right affections. 
We can conceive it only as springing from love. 
From mind power may issue ; from genius beauty 
may be born ; from conscience remorse or peace 
may come ; but from love alone can happiness 
proceed. It is the fragrance of that consummate 
flower. So David felt when he exclaimed: 
" Very pleasant hast thou been to me, my 
brother !" So Solomon realized when he wrote : 
"Ointment and perfume rejoice the heart; so 



THE WISE COUNSELS OF CHRISTIAJST FRIENDS. 219 

dotlL the sweetness of a man's friend by hearty 
counsel." Tliis joy of tlie affections is most pure 
and peaceful. Like aromatic perfumes in tlie 
sultry climates of the East, it is gently and 
pleasantly refreshing. It elevates while it ex- 
hilarates the heart. Is is not followed, as is mere 
human joy, by reaction of regret and gloom. It 
is pleasant in the experience ; it is pleasant in 
the memory ; it is more pleasant still in the hope 
which it awakens of full and uninterrupted satis- 
faction in a higher and immortal sphere. Christ- 
ian friendship is blessed in giving, and more 
blessed in receiving evidence of warmth and 
disinterestedness. There was not unmingled 
sorrow in the parting of Jonathan and David in 
the wild wood of the wilderness of Ziph. There 
was joy in their affections ; and the sting of their 
agony was the interruption of that joy. 



n. One of the most blessed offices which Christ- 
ian friendship can discharge, is intimated in the 
language of Solomon : '^ Ointment and perfume 
rejoice the heart ; so doth the sweetness of a 
man's friend by Jiearty coimselP We often stand 



220 THE DEATH OF A FEIEND. 

in need of " Kearty counsel ;" of sincere, disinter- 
ested, dispassionate, affectionate, lioly, and wise 
advice. We are often at a loss to discern tlie 
path of duty, because our duties seem to be in 
conflict. Standing in tlie midst of several seem- 
ingly conflicting obligations, and pressed by tliem 
on every hand, we can not discern their true posi- 
tion and the urgency of their respective claims, so 
well as our friend can do, who stands apart, and 
can accurately and dispassionately measure their 
obligation, and discern their several relations 
and positions. We are often prevented by our 
passions and our interests from seeing a duty or 
a sin, which in the case of another we should be 
able instantly to detect. We are apt to look 
through the telescope of selfishness from the 
magnifying end, when we gaze upon the duties 
and the objects which we love, and they seem 
large and near ; and we are as apt to reverse it 
when we turn to duties and objects which are 
repulsive, and they are thus made to appear dis- 
tant, unimportant, and minute. Such being our 
infirmity, how precious is the counsel of a faithful 
friend ! We have so often erred ; we have so 
fatally yielded to pride, prejudice, and passion ; 
our best judgment has been so often folly, that 
we have learned not to lean to our own under- 



THE WISE COUKSELS OF CHRISTIAK FEIENDS. 221 

standing, in affairs that most nearly concern our- 
selves. How blessed it is, in such circumstances, 
to have a friend to whom we can throw open all 
our heart ; to whom we are not loth to show all 
our weakness, folly, and temptation ; of whose 
sympathy and ©f whose wise and holy counsel 
we may be assured ! This is a case in which the 
simple may instruct the wise, and the feeble sup- 
port the strong. This blessed office of friendship 
was most faithfully discharged by Jonathan to 
David. When Saul sought his life, David gave 
himself up to the counsel and the guidance of his 
friend. And how wise, affectionate, and faithful 
that guidance was ! David knew that Jonathan's 
soul was knit to his soul. He relied upon the 
covenant of friendship between them. He knew 
that in the perils that environed him he needed 
counsel. Jonathan disclosed to David his father's 
purpose to kill him. He withdrew David from 
the presence of Saul, until he had secured the 
tyrant's promise that his friend's life should be 
secure. When that promise was Adolated, and 
David fled, his friend followed him to his retreat ; 
he cheered him with sympathy ; he made one 
more effort to appease the brutal and envious 
wrath of Soul ; he devised a skillful method by 
which the poor innocent outcast might know 



222 THE iDEATH OF A FEIEKJD* 

whetlier lie should return or flee ; and by his 
"hearty counsel" saved his beloved friend, by 
parting from him for ever, and by consigning 
him, a homeless wanderer, to wild wildernesses 
and gloomy caves. Great reason had David, 
then, to say to Jonathan as he had afterwards to 
say to wise Abigail, and as Christian friends have 
frequently to say to each other in periods of dan* 
ger and of doubt : " Blessed be thy advice, and 
blessed be thou." 



3r|)0 J^utual Comforts anU .Supports ot :ffxUrCtiB. 

III. And this leads to the remark that Christ- 
ian friendship greatly strengthens religious prin- 
ciples and feelings, is a great help to a holy and 
heavenly life, and a great source of comfort in 
trials and sorrows. God graciously allows and 
encourages the knitting of heart to heart, 4n holy 
friendship, as a means to support and comfort 
them. " Iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpen- 
eth the countenance of his friend." Our blessed 
Lord had respect to this want of the human 
heart, when he sent forth his disciples two by 
two. It is at the same time a fruit of the new 
nature v/hose law is love, and matures and 



MUTUAL COHFOBTS AND SUPPORTS. 223 

strengtiiens tlie lioly principle from whicli it 
springs. Striking to this effect is tlie deliglitful 
exhortation of St. Peter : " Seeing ye have puri- 
fied yonr sonls in obeying the truth, through the 
Spirit, see that ye love one another with a pure 
heart fervently." Even the dauntless and burn- 
ing Apostle Paul felt the animating influence of 
Christian friendship. When he was on his way 
as a prisoner to Kome, and the brethren came 
out to meet him as far as the Appii forum, " when 
lie saio tliem lie tliariked God and took coiirageP 
His heart was strengthened by their sympathy 
and affection. Doubtless when he and Silas 
made the walls of their midnight prison ring 
with the praises which they sang to God, it was 
their mutual suffering, and theu' reciprocal sym- 
pathy and encouragement, and the presentation 
to each other of the promises and the grace of 
Christ, which made their souls so joyfully tri- 
umphant over agony and shame. Has not Christ 
himself become man, that he might be to all a 
tender Friend, a compassionate High-Priest, as 
well as one almighty to save ? Did he not sanc- 
tify friendship, and consecrate it for all his fol- 
lowers, in that personal love wherewith he loved 
Lazarus and Martha and Mary, and favored 
John ? We bless him for this gracious arrange- 



224 THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

ment, and for this manifestation of distinguishing 
friendship and affection. "We see how Christian 
friends, in loving each other more and more, do 
not thereby mthdraw from him the love which 
is his due ; bnt rather, in that very act, put forth 
a deeper love for him. For that which in their 
friends wins from them ever higher and purer 
affection, they know is all from Christ ; and that 
which in Christ they most love and prize. That 
divine Spirit which serves to purify each other's 
hearts, and have for each other an added charm 
and a clearer brightness, at the same time and by 
the same means, makes them mirrors more distinct 
to reflect the image of the blessed Master. When 
they are glad in each other, as the redeemed 
and sanctified, they are glad in God and Christ ; 
when they strengthen each other's hands, '' they 
strengthen them in God." Such love is inex- 
pressibly precious in sorrow. "A friend loveth 
at all times ; and a brother is born for adversity." 
When David sang, " Very pleasant hast thou been 
to me," we may be sure that he thought of his 
faithful friend, not alone in connection with the 
splendors of the Jewish court, and the days of his 
triumph and success, but no less in connection 
with his sympathy when Saul sought his life, and 



THE AGOKY OF SEPARATION. 225 

the wilderness of Ziph witnessed their sorrowful 
farewell. 



Such being tlie love of Cliristian friends, and 
sucIl the blessedness of tliat love, Ilow great must 
be the sorrow which follows upon their loss ! 

I. There is an agony in the first separation of 
the heart from the loved of earth, which is keen, 
clamorous, and absorbing. Its cry is, '^ I am dis- 
tressed for thee, my brother !" its passionate wail is, 
" O Absolom ! my son ! my son !" The soul seems 
to be resolved into an emotion ; and to be inca- 
pable for a time of recalling or entertaining the 
thoughts and truths which should calm its tumult, 
and insinuate their pensive peace. Drawn down 
towards the grave in which the departed friend 
is laid, the heart at first refuses to be comforted ; 
and says : " I will go down to the grave mourn- 
ing." It goes constantly to the grave, to weep 
there. And this first wild, absorbing grief, let 
us not harshly censure — let us tenderly regard. 
^^ Jesus %De]ptr It is no part of the work of 

10^ 



226 THE DEATH OF A FEIEND* 

religion to eradicate tlie affections. It refines, 
deepens, and enriclies them. It makes human 
hearts worthier to be loved in life and worthier 
to be wept for when they depart. Let, then, 
the bereaved friend weep and wail over his 
loss. It is '' the cry of the hnman." It is love 
in its highest intensity ; and love is not sin. It 
is connected with salutary self-reproach. It will 
lead to deep self-searchings. It will prepare 
the heart for enduring peace. Let that wild 
tumultuous agony do its appointed work ! The 
more deeply ploughed up by sorrow that heart 
shall be, the deeper and more securely will the 
seeds of joy be planted, and the more vigorously 
will they spring. " Sorrow is a sacred thing." 
If the heart does not murmur, but only weep — 
then let it weep ! If it is a Christian's heart, it 
will soon begin to think ; and its first thought 
will be of Christ and heaven. 



II. The loss of friends makes earth seem poor 
and worthless, and invests heaven with new 
beauty to our hope. It enables us not coldly to 
hnow^ but vividly to realize^ that earth is not our 
home, and it brings heaven nearer to us than 



THE CHASTENINGS OF BEREAVEMENT. 227 

before. '' I sliall go to him, but lie shall not 
return to me," is then the frequent, nay, the 
habitual meditation of the bereaved heart. It 
sees this world and this life in a light in which, 
they were never before presented. An amazing 
change seems to have passed upon himself and 
upon all human objects and pursuits, since his 
friend has left a void space around him. It seems 
now as if that friend had stood between him and 
some most sokmn truths and realities, which it 
was necessary and salutary for him to see, and 
hid them from his view. He sees now that he is 
not a resident upon earth, but only a pilgrim 
passing through it. He sees that all the bustle 
and activity of life around him are not those of 
dwellers in homes, but of sojourners at inns, and 
of passengers upon journeys. Strange, this real- 
ization, this new revelation to his experience, of 
the solemn facts of his probation, and of the 
transitory and inadequate nature of all human 
joys and blessings ; strange that he should not 
have felt as well as known these solenm truths 
before ! It enables Mm to take a just view of 
life and duty. It abates his eager desire of tem- 
poral blessings. It makes him lay out the future 
of life on a new and moderate plan. It sheds a 
sobriety and calmness over the whole of his 



228 THE DEATH OP A FKIEND. 

career. It prevents Mm from indulging great 
expectations and hopes of any earthly future. 
It checks him when he is tempted too eagerly to 
enjoy ; it restrains and soothes him when he is 
about too bitterly to suffer. Thus the grief which 
at first is agony, and then subsides into serious- 
ness, at last becomes that sweet heavenly-minded- 
ness, which is at the same time most fit for the 
stern duties and the permitted enjoyments of the 
inevitable trials of the life that is, and for the 
blessedness of the life to come. 



Hei^ce we see that it is impossible even to 
examine into the nature of the grief which is 
experienced upon the loss of friends, without 
perceiving at the same time, that it is accom- 
panied with and followed by many blessings 
and consolations. 

3ieaben tJratD» near to t|)e J^ourner. 

I. There is the blessing which we saw to be 
involved in its very nature— ^ the blessing of a 
deepened sense of the worthlessness of earth, and 



HEAVEN DEAWS NEAR TO THE MOURNER. 229 

the blessedness of lieaven. But let the bereaved 
mourner remember tliat it is possible to have a 
vivid sense of the nnsatisfactoriness of earth, 
without ha^dng a corresponding sense of the 
desirableness of heaven, and a corresponding 
desire and relish of its spiritual and holy joys. 
We may cry out, " Vanity of vanities !" over the 
poor joys of departing time, and have no heart 
to give a rapturous all liail ! to the rich bliss of 
coming eternity. God would not only wean us 
from the earth, but he would win us for the skies. 
He would not only have us to say in sadness, '' He 
shall not return to me ;" but he would have us 
hopefully to add, " I shall go to him." This is 
the great intended blessing of bereavement — ^the 
purification of the soul — its elevation towards 
heaven — ^its weanedness from earth — ^its meetness 
for " the inheritance of the saints in light." Such 
always is the intended, and such is the frequently 
realized result of the discipline of sorrow. My- 
riads now in glory praise God that he made them 
stand sobbing over the graves of relatives and 
friends. The sorrow which grace accompanies 
purifies the soul. It precipitates its grosser par- 
ticles, and enables it the more easily to ascend. 



230 THE DEATH OF A FKIENI), 

IB^lm SxitvitiH leabe b)it|) us ^precious i^emoicfes* 
II. And wlien a beloved friend lias left us 



how sweet is tlie memory of him wMcli remains ! 
In that vivid and soothing remembrance of his 
virtues and affections, and of the happy hours of 
converse that we passed with him upon earth, he 
seems to have left the best and purest part of 
himself behind. We sometimes feel the beauty 
and drink in the joy of friendship while our 
friends are upon the earth, more richly and fully 
when we are separated from them, than when 
we are united. 

^' Oft when we pine afar from those we love, 
More close are knit the spirit's sympathies, 
By mutual prayer ; distance itself doth prove 
A greater nearness ; with such stronger ties 
Spirit with spirit talks, that when our eyes 
Behold each other, something sinks within. 
Mocked by the touch of life's realities." 

If this be true of our feelings towards a friend 
who is separated from us, but still on earth, how 
much more emphatically true is it of the friends 
who have passed into the heavens ! How beauti- 
ful are the dead ! How bereaved affection loves 
to enumerate all the the virtues and the charms 



THE BEAUTY OF A DEATH OF FAITH. 231 

wMcli their souls possessed liere on eartt ! Those 
•who sit and listen to our prolonged and affection- 
ate eulogies think that we exaggerate their virtues. 
JSTay, we only now see them as they were. We 
now do them justice. We now see them apart 
from the infirmities and sins with which they 
were connected and interrupted ; and out of the 
circle of daily human cares and associations, in 
the midst of which we could not discern their 
loveliness, and appreciate their worth. We saw 
the gem only under the films and incrustations 
which dimmed its lustre and marred its perfec- 
tion ; and now that we think of it as apart from 
its earthly infirmities and environments, we see 
that it was fit to be fashioned and polished for 
the diadem of our King. The joy of our inter- 
course remains with us, and all the pain of it is 
forgotten. "Very pleasant hast thou been to 
me," do our hearts murmur. 



STJe 3Seaut2 of a 2ieat|) at ^attj). 

III. And besides this memory of them in life, 
we have sweet recollections of their peaceful or 
joyful death. It was when they were about to 
leave us, that we discovered the full beauty of 
the hearts, which we had not prized as we then 



232 THE DEATH OF A FBIEOT). 

saw that we slioiild have done. But ere they 
left us, they spoke such soothing and blessed 
words ! They gave us sweet assurances of their 
affection — and it seems now to us to have been 
the love of angels ! They told us in low-breathed 
whispers of a present Saviour ; of the rich peace 
of God that passed their understanding and their 
power of expression ; of sweet foretastes of the 
bhss of the heavenly world. They bade us never 
to forget or doubt that as our day our strength 
should be. They told us how love had cast out 
fear, and faith had banished all misgiving. They 
spoke to us of '' Jerusalem our happy home !" 
They exhorted us to be patient, faithful, and 
devoted ; and promised to meet us soon on the 
heavenly shore. As they sunk into their last 
repose, and fell asleep in Jesus, they whispered 
to us, in tones so full of love that we knew they 
were in sight of heaven, because heaven had 
already entered into their hearts : 

"Do not weep ! 
Never fell so sweet a sleep 
Over mortal eyes. At night 
All the hills with snow were white, 
And the tempest moaning drear ; 
But I wake with Summer here. 
Haste to take my parting hand ! 
We are pushing from the land, 



THE SWEET HOPE OF KE-UNI0:N'. 233 

And adoTvn a lovely stream 
Gently floating. Is't a dream ? 
For the oarsman near me sings, 
Keeping time with snowy wings." 

And wlien these parting words were lingering 
on our ear, and tlie loved one's spirit had depart- 
ed, so did we wish, to feel assured that it loved 
us to the last, and that it went away with angels, 
that in the intense silence that followed its de- 
parture, we seemed to hear that receding voice, 
saying to its celestial escort : 

** stranger, with the wings of snow, 
Singing by me as we row, 
Tell my dear ones on the shore 
I have need of them no more ; 
Weeping will not let them see 
That an angel goes with me!" 



ly. And besides these sweet memories, we 
have hopes as sweet of re-union with departed 
friends in heaven. The bereaved have ever lov- 
ed to cull and grasp the intimations scattered 
through the word of God, that those who die 
in Christ shall know and love each other in the 
better world. And those intimations are neither 
few nor doubtftd. They find that our earthly 



234 THE DEATH OF A FRIEKB. 

life is to be remembered, and that all its history 
k to give perpetual raptures to the new song of 
praise for redeeming love. Then of necessity all 
our human relationships and friends will be re- 
called and recognized. They find that the re- 
surrection-body of Jesus retained its identity and 
the appearance that it wore on earth. Hence 
they believe that it will be with the harvest as 
with its first-fruits. They read that it will be 
their privilege to meet and recognize Abraham, 
Isaac, and Jacob ; and hence they infer that they 
shall meet and know those who have been per- 
sonally near and dear. They know that the 
kingdom of Christ in heaven is the same as the 
kingdom of Christ on earth — ^here militant, and 
there triumphant. They remember how often 
the apostles rejoice in the thought of meeting 
and greeting their loved converts in the upper 
sanctuary — ^how they call them their glory and 
joy and crown in heaven. Hence they can rest 
in the sure and undoubted hope of reunion with 
all their sainted dead in the better world. Hence 
they realize a present communion and fellowship 
with the absent. They know that the departure 
of their friend is not so much a hreaking up^ as 
an extension of their spiritual communion. That 
active mind, that warm heart, those living ener- 



^HE SWEET HOPE OF BE-UNIOK. 235 

gles are not dead, but all enlarged, vivified, glo- 
rified, and blest ! That pure and holy soul 
still tliinks of, cares for, and loves us. In all 
these thoughts there is peace and consolation. 
They perceive that their departed friends, though 
absent, minister more to their spiritual progress 
than when they walked together in the house of 
God and took sweet counsel, and when they sat 
together in their earthly homes in pleasant and 
satisfying affection. 

V^hen hearts which have on earth been one, 

By ruthless death are riven ; 
Why does the one which death has reft 
Drag off in grief the one that's left, 

If not to meet — in heaven ? 

Thus the heart goes where all its treasure is, and 
a new benefit has been bestowed by the friend 
departed which is greater than any which, while 
Iwing^ it could have given. That friend has 
made heaven near, real and attractive. 

Then let not the bereaved and stricken one sit 
down in inert gloom. He had a dear friend who 
was a poor child of earth ; and now he has the 
same friend dearer than before, and transfigured 
into a glorified immortal. Then let him lift up 
his head in hope. Let him gird up his loins for 
duty. In view of the hope that is set before 



236 THE DEATH OF A FElEND. 

f 

Mm, let Mm be steadfast, immovable, always 
abounding in tlie work of tlie Lord, forasmncli 
as lie knows tkat his labor and faith, and patience 
shall not be in vain in the Lord. 



^otmB. 



Mortal ! if life smile on thee, and thou find 

All to thy mind, 
Think who once did from heaven to hell descend, 

Thee to befriend : 
So shalt thou dare forego, at his dear call. 

Thy best, thine all. 

" Father I not my will, but thuie be done :" 

So spake the Son. 
Be this our charm, mellowing earth's ruder noise 

Of griefs and joys ; 
That we may cling for ever to Thy breast. 

In perfect rest I 



ferns on i\}t gM^ of a $xm^. 



a^n tjie Beats of a jFrCentr^ 

Oh ! give them up to Him whose own 
Those dear redeemed ones are ! 
Lo ! on their wakening souls he breaks, 
" The bright and morning star :" 
His are they now for evermore — 
The mystery and the conflict o'er — 
The eternal city won. 
As conquerors let them pass and go 
Up from the fight of faith below. 
The peace of God at last to know 
In kingdoms of the sun ! 

" Lift up your heads, ye heavenly gates ! 
Ye everlasting doors, give way !" 
And let the Lord of glory's train 
Through the bright courts of day ! 
We follow, too, ye loved ones gone ; 
We follow, faint but fearless, on, 



240 THE DEATH OF A FBIEND. 

To meet you where the Lamb once slain, 
Amidst his ransomed Church on high 
Shall dwell — and wipe from every eye 
The tears that, through eternity, 
Shall never flow again ! 

Oh ! blessed are the dead in Christ ! 
Why will we mourn for them '? 
No more the stormy billows there 
With weary hearts they stem. 
No more they struggle here below 
To guide, through many a gulf of woe. 
Their being's fragile bark ; 
But, harbored in eternal rest, 
By far oft-islands of the blest, 
Calm on a sunlit ocean's breast, 
Anchor their fearless ark. 



Seem they to sleep ? — 'tis but as sleeps 

The seed within the earth, 

To burst forth to the brilliant morn 

Of a more glorious birth. 

Seem they to feel no breath of love 

That o'er their icy brow will move 

With tearful whispers warm ? 

'Tis that upon their spirit's ear 

All heaven's triumphant music clear 

Is bursting, where there comes not near 

One tone of sorrow's storm. 

Mes. Hamilton. 



DEATH OF A SISTER. 241 



33eatJ) oi H Sister. 

'Tis finished ! the conflict is past, 

The heaven-born spirit is fled ; 
Her wish is accomplished at last, 

And now she's entombed with the dead. 
The months of aflliction are o'er — 

The days and the nights of distress ; 
We see her in anguish no more — 

She has found a happy release. 

No sickness, or sorrow, or pain, 

Shall ever disquiet her now ; 
For death to her spirit was gain, 

Since Christ was her life when below. 
Her soul has now taken its flight 

To mansions of glory above, 
To mingle with angels of light, 

And dwell in the kingdom of love. 

The victory now is obtained ; 

She's gone her Redeemer to see ; 
Her wishes she fully has gained — 

She's now where she panted to be. 
Then let us forbear to complain 

That she has now gone from our sight ; 
We soon shall behold her again, 

With new and redoubled delight. 

Alexander's Col. 

11 



242 THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 



Another hand is beckoning us, 

Another call is given ; 
And glows once more with angel steps, 

The path which reaches heaven. 

Our young and gentle friend, whose smile 
Made brighter summer hours, 

Amid the frosts of Autumn time, 
Has left us with the flowers. 

No paling of the cheek of bloom. 

Forewarned us of decay ; 
No shadow from the Silent Land, 

Fell round our sister's way. 

The light of her young life went down, 

As sinks behind the hill 
The glory of a setting star, 

Clear, suddenly, and still. 

As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed 

Eternal as the sky ; 
And like the brook's low song, her vbice 

A sound which could not die. 

And half we deemed she needed not 

The changing of her sphere, 
To give to heaven a shining one. 

Who walked an angel here. 



GONE. 243 

The blessing of her quiet life 

Fell on us like the dew ; 
And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed, 

Like fairy blossoms grew. 



Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds 

Were in her very look ; 
We read her face, as one who reads 

A true and holy book : 



The measures of a blessed hymn, 
To which our liearts could move ; 

The breathing of an inward psalm, 
A canticle of love. 



We miss her in the pla<3e of prayer, 
And by the hearth-fire's light ; 

We pause beside her door to hear 
Once more her sweet " Good-night." 



There seems a shadow on the day, 
Her smile no longer cheers ; 

A dimness on the stars of night, 
Like eyes that look through tears. 

Alone unto our Father's will, 
One thought hath reconciled : 

That He whose love exceedeth ours, 
Has taken home his child. 



244 THE DEATH OF A FEIEND. 

Fold her, O Pather ! in thine arms, 

And let her henceforth be 
A messenger of love, between 

Our human hearts and Thee. 

Still let her mild rebuking stand 

Between us and the wrong, 
And her dear memory serve to make 

Our faith in goodness strong. 

And grant that she, who trembling here, 

Distrusted all her powers. 

May welcome to her holier home, 

The well-beloved of ours. 

Whittieb, 



Ef)t IBtuUj of a ffvitnxi. 

Oh ! stay thy tears, for they are blest 
Whose days are past, whose toil is done ; 

Here midnight care disturbs our rest. 
Here sorrow dims the noon-day sun. 

For laboring Virtue's anxious toil. 
For patient Sorrow's stifled sigh. 

For Faith that marks the conqueror's spoil. 
Heaven grants the recompense — to die. 



A PROSPECT OF HEAVEN. 245 

How blest are they whose transient years 

Pass like an evening meteor's light ; 
Not dark with guilt, nor dim with tears ; 

Whose course is short, unclouded, bright ! 

How cheerless were our lengthened way. 
Did heaven's own light not break the gloom, 

Stream downward from eternal day, 
And cast a glory round the tomb ! 

Then stay thy tears : the blest above 

Have hailed a spirit's heavenly birth, 
Sung a new song of joy and love^ 

And why should anguish reign on earth 1 

Andrews Norton. 



There is a land of pure delight, 
Where saints immortal reign ; 

Infinite day excludes the night, 
And pleasures banish pain. 

There everlasting spring abides, 
And never- withering flowers : 

Death like a narrow sea divides 
This heavenly land from ours, 



246 THE DEATH OF A FEIENB. 

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood, 
Stand dressed in living green ; 

So to the Jews old Canaan stood, 
While Jordan rolled between. 

But timorous mortals start and shrink 

To cross this narrow sea ; 
And linger shivering on the brink 

And fear to launch away. 

Oh ! could we make our doubts remove, 
Those gloomy doubts that rise 

And see the Canaan that we love 
With unbeclouded eyes ; 

Could we but climb where Moses stood, 
And view the landscape o'er — 

Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood 
Should fright us from the shore. 



Watts. 



33lace of 39^atce/* 



Neighbor, accept our parting song — 

The road is short, the rest is long : 

The Lord brought here, the Lord takes hence- 

This is no house of permanence. 



''place of peace." 247 

On bread of mirth and bread of tears 
The pilgrim fed these checkered years ; 
Now, landlord world, shut-to the door, 
Thj guest is gone for evermore. 

Gone to a realm of sweet repose, 
His comrades bless him as he goes : 
Of toil and moil the day was full, 
A good sleep now — the night is cool. 

Ye village bells, ring, softly ring, 
And in the blessed Sabbath bring. 
Which from this weary work-day tryst 
Awaits God's folk through Jesus Christ. 

And open wide, thou gate of Peace, 

And let this other journey cease. 

Nor grudge a narrow couch, dear neighbors. 

For slumbers won by life-long labors. 

Beneath these sods how close ye lie ! 
But many a mansion's in yon sky : 
Even now, beneath the sapphire Throne, 
Is his prepared through God's dear Son. 

" I quickly come," that Saviour cries ; 
Yea, quickly come, this churchyard sighs : 
Come, Jesus, come, we wait for thee — 
Thine now and ever let us be. 



248 THE DEATH OF A FEIEND. 



Efit^ are all gone into a 512^otllr of SLiQfiU 

They are all gone into the world of light ! 

And I alone sit lingering here ! 
Their very memory is fair and bright, 

And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast 

Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest 

After the sun's remove. 

1 see them walking in an air of glory 
Whose light doth trample on my days ; 

My days, which are best but dull and hoary, 
Mere glimerings and decays. 

O holy Hope ! and high Humility ! 

High as the heavens above ! 
These are your walks, and you have showed them me 

To kindle my cold love. 

Dear beauteous Death ; the jewel of the just ! 

Shining nowhere but in the dark ; 
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 

Could man outlook that mark ! 

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know 

At first sight if the bird be flown ; 
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, 

That is to him unknown. 



DIVINE FAITHFULNESS. 249 

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams 

Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, 

And into glory peep. 

If a star were confined into a tomb, 

Her captive flames must needs burn there ; 

But when the hand that locked her up gives room, 
She'll shine through all the sphere. 

G Father of eternal life, and all 

Created glories under Thee ! 
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 

Into true liberty ! 

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 

My perspective still as they pass ; 
Or else remove me hence unto that Hill, 

Where I shall need no glass. 

Yaughan. 



313ibine JFaitKulttesj?* 

In the floods of tribulation 

While the billows o'er me roll, 

Jesus whispers consolation. 

And supports my fainting soul. 

Hallelujah! 

Hallelujah ! praise the Lord ^ 
11-^ 



250 THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

In his darkest dispensations, 
Faithful doth the Lord appear, 

"With his richest consolations, 
To reanimate and cheer : 
Sweet affliction, 

Thus to bring my Saviour near. 

In the sacred page recorded 

Thus his word securely stands : 
" Fear not, I'm in trouble near thee. 

Naught shall pluck you from my hands !" 
Sweet affliction. 
Every word my love demands. 



S. Peaece. 



Lo ! the prisoner is released, 

Lightened of his fleshly load ; 
Where the weary are at rest, 

He is gathered unto God ! 
Lo ! the pain of life has past. 

All his warfare now is o'er ; 
Death and hell behind are cast, 

Grief and suffering are no more. 

Yes, the Christian's course is run, 
Ended is the glorious strife ; 

Fought the fight, the work is done. 
Death is swallowed up of life ! 



THE DIVERGING PATH. 251 

Borne by angels on their wings, 

Far from earth the spirit flies, 
Finds his God, and sits and sings, 

Triumphing in Paradise. 

Let the world beVail their dead, 

Fondly of their loss complain ; 
Brother, friend, by Jesus freed, 

Death to thee, to us is gam : 
Thou art entered into joy : 

Let the unbelievers mourn 
We in songs our lives employ 

Till we all to God return. 

WssLEY^fc} Col* 



The path by which we twain did go. 

Which led by tracts that pleased us well, 
Through four sweet years arose and fell, 

From flower to flower, from snow to snow. 



And we with singing cheered the way, 
And crowned with all the season lent, 
From April on to April went, 

And glad at heart from May to May : 



252 THE DEATH OF A FEIEND. 

But where the path we walked began 

To slant the fifth autumnal slope, 

As we descended, following Hope, 
There sat the Shadow feared of man ; 

Who broke our fair companionship, 

And spread his mantle dark and cold ; 

And wrapped thee formless in the cold, | 

And dulled the murmur on my lip ; 

And bore thee where I could not see 

Nor follow, though I walk in haste ; 

And think that somewhere in the waste. 
The Shadow sits and waits for me. 

Tennyson. 



namtti*** 

Come, let us join our friends above 

That have obtained the prize. 
And on the eagle wings of love 

To joys celestial rise : 
Let all the saints terrestrial sing, 

With those to glory gone ; 
For all the servants of our King 

In earth and heaven are one. 



OF WHOM THE WHOLE FAMILY IS KAMED. 253 

One family, we dwell in Him ; 

One Church above, beneath ; 
Though now divided by the stream 

The narrow stream of death : 
One army of the living God, 

To his command we bow — 
Part of his host have crossed the flood, 

And part are crossing now. 

Ten thousand to their endless home 

This solemn moment fly ; 
And we are to the margin come, 

And we expect to die. 
His militant embodied host, 

With wishful looks we stand. 
And long to see that happy coast 

And reach the heavenly land. 

Our old companions in distress 

We haste again to see, 
And, eager, long for our release 

And full felicity : 
Even now by faith we join our hands 

With those that went before ; 
And greet the blood-besprinkled bands 

On the eternal shore. 

Our spirits too shall quickly join. 

Like theirs with glory crowned, 
And shout to see our Captain's sign, 

To hear his trumpet sound. 



254 THE DEATH OF A FKIENB. 

Oh ! that we now might grasp our Guide. 

Oh ! that the word were given. 
Come, Lord of hosts, the waves divide, 

And land us all in heaven ! 

John "Wesley. 



^ JPtager tot 3^esi]jnatton* 

O Lord ! my best desires fulfill, 

And help me to resign 
Life, health, and comfort to thy will, 

And make thy pleasure mine. 

Why should I shrink at thy command, 
Whose love forbids my fears 1 

Or tremble at the gracious hand 
That wipes away my tears 1 

No ! rather let me freely yield 
What most I prize to thee, 

Who never hast a good withheld. 
Or wilt withhold from me. 



Thy favor, all my journey through, 
Thou art engaged to grant : 

What else I want, or think I do, 
'Tis better still to want. 



THE CLOUD OF WITNESSES. 255 

Wisdom and Mercy guide my way- 
Shall I resist them both ; 

A poor, blind creature of a day, 
And crushed before the moth 1 

But, ah ! my inward spirit cries, 

Still bind me to thy sway ; 
Else the next cloud, that veils my skies, 

Drives all these thoughts away, 

COWPER. 



^TJe mtUuti of Witnesses* 

Give me the wings of faith, to rise 

Within the veil, and see 
The saints above — how great their joys ! 

How bright their glories be ! 

Once they were mourning here below, 
And wet their couch with tears ; 

They wrestled hard, as we do now, 
With sins, and doubts, and fears. 

I ask them whence their victory came ; 

They, with united breath, 
Ascribe their conquest to the Lamb, 

Their triumph to his death. 



256 THE DEATH OF A FBIEKD. 

They marked the footsteps that he trod, 

His zeal inspired their breast ; 
And, following their incarnate God, 

Possess the promised rest. 

Our glorious Leader claims our praise 

For his own pattern given, 
While the long cloud of witnesses 

Show the same path to heaven. 

Watts. 



Dear Eefuge of my weary soul, 
On thee, when sorrows rise — 

On thee, when waves of trouble roll, 
My fainting hope relies. 

To thee I tell each rising grief, 
For thou alone canst heal ; 

Thy word can bring a sweet relief 
For every pain I feel. 

But oh ! when gloomy doubts prevail, 

I fear to call thee mine ; 
The springs of comfort seem to fail, 

And all my hopes decline. 



FRIEKDS. 257 

Yet, gracious God, vrheve shall I flee ? 

Thou art my only trust : 
And still my soul would cleave to thee. 

Though prostrate in the dust. 

Thy mercy-seat is open still : 

Here let my soul retreat, 
With humble hope attend thy will, 

And wait beneath thy feet. 

MEa Steeld. 



jFr f en tr 0* 

Friend after friend departs ; 

Who hath not lost a friend ? 
There is no union here of hearts, 

That finds not here an end ; 
Were this frail world our only rest, 
Living or dying, none were blest. 

Beyond the flight of Time, 
Beyond this vale of death, 

There surely is some blessed clime, 
Where life is not a breath, 

Nor life's affections transient fire, 

Whose sparks fly upwards to expire. 



258 THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

There is a world above, 

Where parting is unknown ; 
A whole eternity of love 

Formed for the good alone ; 
And faith beholds the dying there 
Translated to a happier sphere. 

Thus star by star declines 

Till all are passed away, 
As morning high and higher shines 

To pure and perfect day ; 
Nor sink those stars in empty night ; 
They hide themselves in heaven's own light, 

Montgomery. 



''^n mt tD^om jjis il^ot!)et comfortetli,** 



BEXiaHTED on a lone and dreary wild, 

Perplexed, exhausted, helpless, in despair, 

I cast me down, and thought to perish there. 

When through the gloom a face appeared and smiled ; 

And a sweet voice said : " Courage I rise, my child I 

And I will guide thee safely on thy way." 

As to night-watchers comes the morning ray, 

So came that voice to me ; and on that face 

I seemed a loving tenderness to trace, 

That soothed and cheered me as, forlorn, I lay ; 

I felt as feels the child whose throbbing grief 

A mother's love assuages in its source ; 

And asking strength of Him who gave relief, 

I straightway rose, and onward held my course. 

W. L. Alexander. 



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